25 Days Your Son
by x Bout as Stable as the Wind x
Summary: When the Red Hood suffers from amnesia, Batman can finally bring him home. He regains his son; Dick, Tim, and Damian regain their brother; and all in time for Christmas. But how far is Bruce willing to go to preserve this newfound peace, especially from the Joker? Is he willing to steal away Jason's memories forever to keep the family together? [not slash]
1. Chapter 1

**Title: 25 days my Son**

**Rating: T for violence and language**

**Pairings(if any): implied Dick/Babs **

**A/N: It is Christmas Day as I post this new story and I just got the New 52 Nightwing series, the first 4 volumes! My favorite is by far the Death of the Family Arc, it is simply amazing, and there will be references to it in the story. I'm so happy! Also, for those of you following "These Scars", the story has not been abandoned but I need some inspiration, so please be patient :)**

**A/N: character designs are basically all the New 52 stuff. **

* * *

"HAHAHAHAHA, AHAHAHAHAHA…!"

The chilling laughter echoes throughout the abandoned auto-body shop, though the owner of the haunting voice is nowhere to be seen. Scattered rays of moonlight cascade through the shop's skylights, reflecting off the gleaming chrome of several expensive vehicles, most of them brightly colored convertibles, with a few sleek bikes on display as well. The illumination also highlights the graffiti covered walls, spray painted in the forms of blood mouths and the word _HA _in all styles and forms. Other than the paint job, however, nothing else seems to have been disturbed; and that is why Nightwing stands in the front doorway, reluctant to go in any further. The laughter has died away, the speakers shrieking as they die away; it is then that the young vigilante dares to tap his small earpiece and begin his report. "I'm in," he says shortly. "No sign of the Joker though; but he's here. I know it."

He can hear Oracle, aka Barbara Gordon, type several different codes into her computer before he hears her confirmation. _"Alright, Nightwing. Robin and Red Robin are almost at your position; stay put until they get there."_

He nods, even though he knows that the woman will not be able to see him, and leans casually against the doorframe, trying to not to give into his increasing adrenaline as he keeps his voice low. "Sooo… how's Batman?"

Back at the Batcave, Oracle glances over her shoulder towards where a haggard Bruce Wayne is tapping furiously at the computer, a Bat-glare pasted on his face despite the fact that he is not in costume. "He's the same as when you talked to him last," she sighs quietly into her headset's microphone. "He wants to be out there; he hates the fact that you guys are handling Joker by yourselves."

_"__He's got over four fractured ribs and a minor concussion. He __**can't **__be out here," _Nightwing replies, sounding just as edgy.

"**_I _**know that, Dick," she says, rubbing a tired hand over her forehead. "But **_he _**doesn't; well, at least I have Alfred here to help me this time. It'd be pretty embarrassing for the Batman's image if he was taken down by a former Batgirl in a wheelchair, just because he was trying to sneak out of his own Cave."

Dick Grayson chuckles upon that statement, feeling some of the tension loosen its way from his muscles. However, before he could enjoy the tiny period of relief, the Joker's laughter flows towards him again, this time louder and more clear. "Sorry, Oracle, but I'm gonna have to cut this debriefing short," he states, one hand moving to the escrima stick strapped to his thigh. "The clown's up to something – I can hear him. I'm going in for a closer look."

_"__Just wait a minute, Hunk Wonder. Robin is literally only a minute away."_

He's already moving deeper inside the shop, the laughter still having yet to cease, the high-pitched sounds reverberating off the walls as they blare from the intercom speakers. He takes a moment to focus himself, listen closely; and comes to the conclusion that his target is hidden somewhere in the back storage room. He moves forward.

_"__Dick? Dick, are you listening to me? Just wait for Robin…"_

Something that sounds horrifically like a chainsaw is revved up in the storage room, and his pace quickens. "Oracle," he whispers, words rushed. "Oracle, he's definitely here. He's doing something, I need to make sure no one is…"

_"__Don't be stupid. Stay put!"_

"Let me just see…"

_"__Dick!"_

He's already at the doorway leading into the storage room; and cautiously, he pushes away the thick strips of plastic that act as a blocker, allowing him to peer into the extremely large room filled with partially built cars, crates and crates and mechanical parts, and the carnage that is covers the exact center of the room. The black-haired hero stumbles back a step, hand clamping down over his mouth as he smothers a gasp. "Oracle," he manages to choke out, regaining his composure as a rush of righteous adrenaline surges through his veins. "I'm going in!" _Can't wait, or it'll be too late_.

_"__Dick!" _barks out Oracle. _"Don't, just wait…!"_

But he's already switched off his comm. and grasped both his escrima sticks, rushing into the storage area.

* * *

Her connection with Dick is severed, and Barbara resists the urge to pull at her hair. Instead, she stares at the two little red and green dots that represent Red Robin and Robin, whose green beacon is now just across the street from Nightwing's location. _Hurry,_ she urges the little marker. _Hurry before your dork of an older brother does something stupid_.

At that moment, the strained voice of her mentor drifts over to her. "Is everything alright, Oracle?" His voice is a strange mixture of Bruce Wayne and the Batman; and as she turns to face him, she can't help but notice his gaunt appearance.

For his sake, she plasters on a smile, hoping that Bruce's exhaustion will ensure that he does not see through her false optimism. "Everything seems to be according to plan," she says, trying to keep her voice light. "Try not to worry – they're all fine."

His eyes narrow – because of course he doesn't believe her, he's the goddamn Batman – but he does eventually go back to his computer files. Surprising. She'd at least expected him to walk over and check for himself the three little icons on the bottom of her screen that tell him his sons' vital signs; and this tells her just how tired the man truly is. Pursing her lips into a thin line, she goes back to tapping her fingernails against her desk, hoping beyond hope that Dick had used common sense and had waited for one or both of his brothers to back him up before going to confront the Joker.

_Please, please, let them stop him this time_, she begs no one or anything in particular. _Please_.

* * *

Immediately, there's a barrage of bullets chipping the walls and boxes he's near; a series of perfected acrobatics easily keeps him out of harm's way as he flies towards his opponents. The first thug, face covered by a plastic clown mask, goes down easily, and while the other two prove a bit more of a challenge, they are taken care of quickly as soon as they are disarmed. Two more of the Joker's hired guns rush at him from behind, and he flings two wingdings in their general direction, hitting both in the kneecaps; a single blow delivered to each of the men's foreheads render them all securely unconscious. He's lacking in his usual banter tonight; the coagulating pools of blood on the floor, along with the two maimed cops on the floor, have dampened his mood. In between head smashing and gut kicking, he glances at the pair of victims, sighing in relief when he sees they are both breathing. His own identity as a member of the Bludhaven PD makes this crime **_that _**much more personal – he may not live in Gotham anymore, but he knows both these officers. They're clean, unlike most of Gotham's dirty little patrolmen; and for that, he'll ensure the Joker will pay tonight. Killing is still not an option, but a few extra broken bones won't make much of a difference, will they?

He becomes too wrapped up in focusing on the cops – a juvenile mistake he should not have made – and suddenly, white hot agony splits his skull in two as a wrench bears down on the nape of his neck. Large black blobs mar his vision, and he can just barely comprehend that he's lying flat down on the ground. There's ringing in his ears, and his neck just hurts so badly that he fears it may be broken; and all the while the singsong of laughter echoes above him.

"Well, well, well, look what birdie I've caught today!" exclaims the Joker's voice. The clown is standing above him, he can tell; but he still can't see clear, and the pain has traveled up to his neck, throbbing. There's a trickle of hot blood seeping down his costume too. _Great, Grayson. Nice going…_

"Where's the Bat, birdie?" the psychopath's voice taunts, mingling in with the sound of a foot tapping against the ground near his head. "Did he abandon you _again_? My, my, and here I thought he'd learned to keep his pets on a shorter leash. Don't you remember the last time?"

Yes, he does; and the horrific memories of his family all tied up, bloody cloths around their faces and soaked to the bone in gasoline*, is enough motivation for him to force open his eyes and get to his knees, despite how his upper neck protests. Groaning despite his best efforts not to, he raises his vision to find himself looking up at the appallingly familiar face of the Joker, crazed eyes gleaming in the dull lamp light, yellowed jaw in full view with the maniac's newest 'make over'. The knowledge that the man had sliced his **_own face off _**and then stapled it back on still nauseated him; the added knowledge that he'd come **_this _**close to having the same thing done to himself and the rest of his family made the feeling even worse.

Two wild eyes, one green/gray, the other almost completely white, stared down at him above that sadistic grin. "Let's see if we can get your daddy Bat to come out, little birdie," he exclaimed, once again raising the heavy mechanic's wrench. "Let's play!"

* * *

*** reference to the New 52 Nightwing's ****_Death of the Family_**** story arc, where Joker kidnaps Batman and his family (Alfred, Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Robin &amp; Batgirl).**

* * *

Next chapter we'll have Red Hood/Jason! :D


	2. Chapter 2

"Let's play!" Joker screams, raising a large, metal wrench high in the air over a dazed looking Nightwing.

_No!_ The sight of his older brother lying at the Joker's feet sends static waves of terror through all of Red Robin's nerves as he kicks in the back door of the auto shop; as soon as he's back on his feet, he sends a birdarangs whistling towards the sadistic clown, the sharp blade embedding itself in the white, fingerless gloves clutching the wrench. There's a screech that's ripped from bloody red lips, and Nightwing manages to scramble several feet away on his elbows and knees while Joker clutches his injured hand, dark liquid dripping onto the concrete floor.

Insanity manages to jerk him out of the pain far faster than normal, and those wild eyes swing dazed around the shop for a moment before landing on Red Robin and Robin, who are now trying to get Nightwing to his feet. He looks back at his hand, then the vigilantes, then his hand again. Something deadly sparks on his horrid face. "That's not funny," he growls, and Red Robin feels himself grow goose bumps.

When the Joker makes a mad dash for the exit, none of them are surprised. "Robin, stay here with Nightwing and those cops!" the masked Tim Drake calls out, already sprinting forward in pursuit. He chooses to ignore Robin's indignant protests, along with the worry for Dick that's making his gut churn. _He's fine_, he reminds himself. _Saw some blood, but he was conscious and not screaming in pain. Damian can take care of him for now. C'mon, Drake, focus! Focus on catching _him_._ Joker, despite being a demented maniac that had sliced off his own face and stapled it back on, is fast when he wants to be. He can just get a few glimpses of a purple jacket and pale white skin as the psycho begins to disappear in the darkness of the Gotham slums; the weather isn't helping at all as dark clouds release large clumps of frigid white fluff down on the world below. When chasing on foot proves not to be effective, Red Robin hastily scampers up a fire escape and then leaps off the rooftop, opening his arms wide and allowing his new glider feature to come into play. The dozens of light plastic strands attached to his suit, resembling feathers, quickly catch the wind, and he glides over alleyways and the empty streets, slowly gaining on his prey. _Damn it, Joker_. He grit his teeth as the sadistic suddenly changed course and made a sharp right; in his attempt to follow, Tim felt his glider nearly fold in on him. _Why is he so fast? Ugh, need to retrofit these wings for winter flight – the cold and the snow certainly aren't doing me any good. _

_"__Red Robin?" _Oracle's voice interrupts his mental rambling.

He risks lowering one of his artificial wings to tap his earpiece. "Go, Oracle."

_"__Are you aware that you're heading directly for the highway?"_

He looks around, squinting through the quickly thickening snow. "Uh… huh. Yeah, I guess I am. I should probably try to catch this slime ball before he gets there, should I?" He makes a deep swoop down, and curses when the Joker once again takes a sudden turn, this time to the left. He's swerving, but he's definitely heading for the highway. "Hey, Oracle, have you heard from Nightwing or Robin yet?"

_"__Yes, they're both fine; but Tim, if he gets across that highway, you'll have to postpone the chase."_

Now that's confusing. "What are you talking about? We need to catch him this time, I'm gaining ground, I can do it…"

_"__The highway, Tim."_

"So?"

There's a pause. _"Red Hood's territory? Across the highway? Ring a bell?"_

Gears churn in the teen's head, and suddenly he lowers his arms and lands on a store's rooftop, watching as the slick fugitive let out cackling laughter as he dashed across the now empty highway lanes, disappearing into the distant shadows. "Shiiiiiiiii_iiiiii_t," he drawls, resisting the urge to hit something. He stamps his boot against the ground instead, and then leaps downwards so he is once again on solid ground. _Unbelievable. So close! Damn it, damn it, damn it! Stupid Hood, with your petty boundary rules. Stupid Batman, for actually agreeing to those rules. Stupid me, for being so weak that I know I'll get my face wiped across Gotham's pavement if I break those rules._

He can hear sympathy and exasperation in Oracle's voice as she spoke. _"I'll talk to the boss here and see what we should do next. Don't worry, Tim, we'll get him next time."_

He finds his mind wandering away from the present reality and thinking back to a few months ago, him first being forced to fight Red Hood nearly to the death by the Joker and then being captured with the rest of his brothers in order to break the Batman. The memory haunts him, even now, and at that moment he makes a decision. _Since fighting Hood last we've gotten… I dunno… a better understanding of each other. He's still exaggeratingly fierce over his territory; but if he hears that it's in order to catch Joker maybe he'll relent a bit. He'll probably relent a bit. I just bet he'll relent. Maybe he could even help, if I can stop him from shooting the clown in the head before I get him back to Arkham. Yeah, yeah, okay. I can do this, alright then…_

He breaks out into a swift run once more, quickly clearing the highway; then, before he knows it, he's past it and slipping down an old alleyway filled with backed up sewage and garbage and filthy yellow snow drifts. He leaps over the larger obstacles, and then finds himself in a rather large, open area, with a broken fountain in the middle surrounded by tattoo parlors, bars, and dingy night clubs that pulse with loud, off beat music. Oracle is yelling in his ear, telling him to turn back around and not to be stupid; he raises one hand and shuts the comm. off, no doubt going to get a heck of a scolding later by the former Batgirl. Yet, strangely enough, he can't bring himself to truly care. He's too busy studying his surroundings, attempting to discern where the Joker had disappeared. _C'mon, you freak, show yourself_.

Directly up ahead, a club called the Warp suddenly has its doors flung open, and scantily clad drunks pour outside, screaming. One man, his pants hanging down to his knees, trips and falls in a drift of snow – he's still clutching his beer and he's as white as the frozen water beneath him, breathing coming out in heavy gasps. He looks as if he's about to have a coronary.

_Well… that's as good a place to start looking as any._

* * *

Oracle sits at her post, speechless for quite a moment. She's never been too fond of the Jason Todd, ever since he'd become the Red Hood. He'd been an amusing child as Robin; but the violent, trigger happy vigilante he ran around as now always made her uncomfortable. Dick said he trusted his brother with his life; but she'd seen the marks on all three of the Batman's current partners. Hood never went easy on any of them if they crossed the line. The line that Tim had just broken tonight. She spins her chair around to glare at the man standing behind her, whose face is as unreadable as always. "Have you trained _all _of your sons to be so impulsive?" she demands, frowning. "Because Red Robin just crossed the highway and _then _cut me out."

"I've been tracking the Red Hood's movements for the past several weeks," Bruce replied, ruffled yet now showing it. Barbara Gordon was perhaps the only person besides Alfred and his surrogate offspring that could talk up to him as such and leave unharmed. "He's busy with a drug bust tonight on the other side of his territory – he shouldn't be anywhere near Tim tonight."

"And if Jason _does _show up?" she challenges, eyes holding his gaze steadily; a feat she may not have achieved had he been wearing the cowl. "Do you think he'll be all pleasant with having Tim _and _the _Joker_ trespassing? Breaking the rules you _both _set up and agreed to?"

He doesn't answer, but the way his muscles tense and his lips purse together tell her all she needs to know.

* * *

The Red Hood has never been a very popular reputation; and Jason Todd has never been very trendy _using _that reputation. He doesn't mind. It just makes keeping a low profile easier, allowing him to slip into the rich New Gotham streets and then slink back into the slums with the skills of a professional prevaricator. It gets him into the dirtiest, seediest places available in the city, where the lowest of the low gather around to drink and fuck and fight and make complete fools of themselves.

It also gets him free beer, because apparently, the owner of the joint he's currently in is in need of protection tonight; and Red Hood can provide that protection for a never ending tab of burning alcohol. It's why he's now lounged in a corner window booth, two empty bottles on the filthy table before him and another in his hands. His red helmet sits on his lap as he swings the cool beverage up to his lips once more; just as he swallows, he notices the Warp across the street get suddenly evacuated, all its pathetic customers flooding out the gates as if the place is on fire. He doubts there's any real trouble. He knows the owner of the club is a drunken asshole who completely loses his mind after a few drinks too many; no doubt Buzz ran all those people out himself. He takes another sip of his beer, than glances down at the bulge from underneath his leather jacket and white t-shirt. He knows the lump is formed by the bandages his ribs were completely wrapped in – the drug bust from earlier had gone well except for those few broken bones. It makes breathing a bitch, but the drinks are already numbing that negative effect; and besides, he had reason to celebrate. No more Donnie Franco dealing amphetamines to high school saps. No more Donnie Franco period. It felt good to have that oaf off his streets, knowing those teenagers would be rid of Franco's pep pills, and Jason managed a sloppy smirk to himself. _Good work tonight, Jason_, he complimented. _Good work…_

His peripheral vision picked up a flash of red and black against the gray/white backdrop, and he choked on his next gulp of beer. To see the Red Robin dashing across the broken little plaza and leap through the Warp's front door is certainly not expected, and Jason lets his drink fall from his hands, replacing it with his helmet as he slams the protective gear over his head. "…the fuck...?" He passes by the bar's owner, whose yelling at him to come back, that he still needs protecting. Red Hood shouts back at him, something about keeping his dick in his pants and that he'll be back in no time, before charging out into the frigid winter air.

By the time he reaches the Warp, its fairly obvious what has caused the people to panic and explains Red Robin's presence. The Joker stands is standing on the small stage, the one used to show off exotic dancers, and in his hands he clutches a hand pistol he must've pulled from one of the guards. R. Robin is perched on one of the overturned tables, his boa staff held in front of him as he tries to gauge if/when/where his opponent will shoot. Red Hood stands in the doorway, blood boiling at the sight of the clown freak, his own impressive firepower slipping out of their holsters and into his palms.

Joker is the first one to spot him, and playfully levels his weapon at the bright hood. "Hey there, Hoodie!" he calls out, making Red Robin spin around in surprise. "Would you look at that! It's all three of us, back together again, just like old times!" He laughs – of course he's gotta laugh – and then yanks the safety off the pistol. His voice drops three octave lower, and he tilts his head in a mockingly seductive matter. "Let's get this party started, shall we?"

He's diving for cover even before the first bullet is shot at him. He crashes to the ground and looks up to see Red Robin performing an elegant dance, leaping from one table to the next, slowly getting closer and closer to the enemy. He's gonna take him down, truss him up, and drag that clown's ass all the way back to Arkham; and once again, Jason will lose his chance to rid the world of this bastard's cruelty for good. _Oho no you don't… not this time, baby bird_. He's back on his feet in a second, and striding forward towards the stage, fingers slamming down on his triggers in an attempt to get this job done before 'baby bird' gets close enough to interfere.

One bullet ricochets, and Tim barely has time to dodge it before it rips past his shoulder. "Watch it, Hood!" he calls out angrily. "You don't have to go 'round shooting like some drunk cowboy!" The younger boy pauses a second, considers tazering Jason and getting him out of the way, and then decides against it. It'll just make things more difficult in the long run.

"Ya can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen, baby bird!" he calls back, still shooting, gritting his teeth. " 'the hell you doing here anyway?! On _my _land!"

Once again, the cowboy metaphor comes to mind, but Red Robin shoves it aside. "Would you rather me let this sicko get away, trashing up your business?!" he exclaims, ducking and gliding with a grace that has always left Jason a bit jealous. Heck, a lot jealous.

_Damn replacement and Dick and demon spawn, always showing off. Damn Bat for teaching them all this crap and not _me. He's almost at the stage, but so is the other boy. And the Joker… he just keeps skipping around, not fazed by the fact that almost all of Hood's projectiles are only centimeters away from their mark. _Hold still, ya ass!_ "If he wanders into my territory, than you leave him to me!" he states, growling. He's taken off guard when R. Robin slams into him from the side, and nearly dislocates the sixteen-year-old's jaw with his uppercut slam. "Back off!"

"Can't let you kill him," Tim grunts, kicking Hood in gut before scrambling to his feet.

"My property, my rules!" His regains his grip on his guns and once again begins shooting. Only the clown isn't on the stage anymore – he's moved over near the drink bar. He and Tim lock eyes for just a second before both break out in a mad race to reach their prey first.

Joker looks and them, and waggles his eyebrows; a motion Jason wouldn't have thought he could still pull off with his face like that. "Aw, you two fighting over little ol' me?" he coos. "I take back what I said before – this is _much _better than a date with the Bat!"

_Oh, so he's doing all this just to get to Bruce. Of course he is. _He notices that somehow, Tim has pulled ahead of him, dodging objects while he just smashes through them. He considers shooting the kid for a moment – nothing lethal, just maybe in one of the legs – but then relents a bit. He doesn't feel like killing the Batman's partners anymore, at least not Tim or Dick. He's still considering his thoughts on the demonic nightmare that's called Damian Wayne.

His ribs scream at him in protest as he breaks right through a heavy wooden table, and he stifles a cry. He releases a heavy torrent of profanities instead, and when both he and Red Robin are near enough, they both take crazed, flying leaps through the air, ready to tackle Joker to the ground and fight over him like cats over a mouse.

But Joker gets to throw his homemade Molotov cocktail first, and throws the small explosive happily at them. "Catch, boys!"

It crashes against Jason's hood – because _of course_ it would hit him and spare the replacement. But _both _of them go flying back from the impact, flames quickly spread all around them as Joker unleashes several more of his toys. There's enough alcohol in the place to make it light up like dead grass. _How did I not see him making those?_ he thinks with a groan as he sits up, gasping at the agony that is his chest, just barely aware of how Red Robin is groggily trying to regain his balance on his knees. _Goddamn it!_

Smoke… its everywhere now. Little sensors in his helmet begin to flash warnings and beep periodically. _Thank you, little helmet sensors. Like I didn't already know I'm knee deep in shit right now_. He tries to sit up more, until his chest shrieks at him not to move another muscle or it'll rip itself from its body. _Waist deep. _He blinks a few times, trying to regain his vision behind the lenses of his red mask.

Tim is stumbling around, coughing into the sleeve of his Red Robin uniform as he begins babbling to someone he can't see. Ghosts? No, that's stupid. Jason frowns as he tries to get his brain to think straight. Oracle. He's probably talking to Oracle. He knows that means others will be showing up soon, but can't bring himself to care much. Probably because his mind has become as smoked up as the room, and his chest feels afire – maybe it actually is – and he's trapped in this hell with princess Timothy Drake. Well, at least it's not the demon spawn. Red Robin… Jason decides that for the moment, he can tolerate Red Robin.

"…and we're… Oracle? Oracle?! Shit!" Tim is using his fingers to go all woodpecker on his ear – Jason hisses as he gets to his feet and observes just how stupid the kid looks. He considers a snappy insult, but then a beam nearby crashes to the ground, and he decides full blown mocking can wait until they're both out of the Warp-turned-oven. "Something wrong, baby bird?" he calls over teasingly, managing a pain laced smirk.

Red Robin scowls at him from behind his black mask, but doesn't seem _too _irked. "I can't get back in contact with Oracle," he says grimly. "And I didn't tell her about _you _being here either."

"Doesn't matter – I'll be outta here in just a few seconds." He stumbles over towards where the front door had been; it's now covered by three flaming chunks of roof and other debris. He tries to move a piece; but his body won't let him, and he's forced to lean back against a piece of wall that is not yet aflame. "Ugh…" He shuts his eyes, shakes his head in an attempt to clear it. "…gimme a minute… to, uh… to think…"

"Don't hurt yourself," Tim tells him dryly. "We can't waste time, we've gotta get out of here now…"

The center beam comes crashing down, and Red Robin is the first to hear the ominous creaks and groans of the building.

"Hood, c'mon we need to… JASON, MOVE!"

The ceiling comes crashing down on them a split second later.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: been way too long since I uploaded this, hasn't it? Sorry. This is definitely not one of my priority fanfictions, just something I'm doing for fun. But I'll apologize anyway. I'm not very proud of the writing for this chapter, I just don't feel right about it, but it'll have to do. If any of you have any information on amnesia for the later chapters of this story, tell me! :) it'll cut down on my research.**

**Also, a note that I only write fanfiction on weekends now (Friday, Saturday, and Sunday). I write my novel(s) on weekdays, and I'm super busy with schooling (with a desire to be an ADA, that's a lot of school). So... yeah. Still, hope you enjoy the story :)**

* * *

The red and blue lights flashing all around penetrate the darkness his eyelids offer, eliciting a groan from the young teen as he lays beneath the debris. He can hear sirens, the static of radios being used for communication, the loudness of shouting voices all around. It's all so bright, so loud; it makes the throbbing against his temple amplify, and his sore, dry throat elicits a hoarse groan. Even that small movement is difficult, because something massive and heavy is crushing his chest, restricting his breathing, forcing the air out of his lungs little by little. Now that he's aware of it, the pain is unbearable, and he desperately begins to gasp for oxygen as he tries to wriggle his way free. His vision blurs even more, his head shrieks, and he closes his eyes, losing the battle to keep them open. _Everything hurts_, his mind laments. _Make it stop hurting. _

The voices draw nearer, some calling to him, others just background noise that he wishes would just quiet down and go away. He can make out footsteps now, running closer, a hurried pace.

"This way, I think I see something!" hollers an unfamiliar male.

"Officer Carter's got something! Over here! Move it, move it!" That sounds like Commissioner Gordon.

"Yeah, yeah, I've definitely got a sight on someone over here!" calls out the male again… Carter…

Lots of footsteps. A dog, probably with the police force, barks. Then he hears Officer Carter's panicked shout, only a few feet away. "Oh my god… I need backup over here! It's Red Robin! I've got Red Robin! He… he's got another with him… I need a bus, ASAP!" A pause. "Two buses!"

He must look **_bad _**if his appearance can get this man sounding so freaked and frantic. He tries to open his eyes, give some sign that he's alive; but his muscles aren't cooperating, and his brain keeps trying to lull him to sleep with foggy thoughts and the pounding in his head.

And then he heard a **_very_** familiar voice calling out to him, then dropping down right above his face as the owner of said-voice runs a tender hand through his hair, along his face, then to his neck, checking for a pulse. "Red? Red can you hear me? Answer me, c'mon, wake up…" The weight on his chest shifts, and Tim can tell that Nightwing is trying to pull whatever is restricting his breathing off of him. "What the… oh God! Robin, get over here! Now!"

Finally, **_finally_**, he manages to open his eyes just a crack. He sees Nightwing, and then Damian as the kid runs over, yanking the object off his chest. Not an object. A person. A person covered in blood and grime and completely limp, not moving, seemingly not breathing. The person, he realizes, had been lying face down on him… almost as if he'd leapt over him just as the explosion hit, as if he'd been trying to protect him.

Only when unconsciousness finally wins out, dragging him down into its murky depths, does he recognize the limp person's features.

_Oh my God… Jason…_

* * *

His aching head and neck protest in painful spikes of pain as he strains his muscles, but Dick doesn't care. Because these are his **_brothers _**that are lying in the debris-covered ground. He'd only recognized Red Robin at first, pale and unmoving on the ground; his heart had leapt into his mouth as he'd dropped to his knees beside him, begging any heavenly deity to please, _please_, let Tim be alive. But then he'd focused on the **_other _**person lying **_on top_** of Tim, hair a mess and caked with dried blood, clothing burnt but not flesh because… this person was wearing Kevlar. And as soon as he'd spotted the shattered remnants of a familiar red helmet, he'd had a minor coronary as he screamed for Damian to hurry over, to get the police and the ambulances over here, **_now_**, he needed help.

"Jason…" he breathes, voice just barely above a whisper as he lies his younger – but broader, taller, and stronger – sibling down on the ground next to Tim. He notices the foot long gash on his forehead, the pain-laced expression plastered onto his face, and chokes down a lump of fear and anxiety as he checks for a pulse. A tiny one, just barely there, but _there _all the same. He glances over to make sure Robin is taking care of Tim, and then lightly pats the Red Hood on the cheek, chewing frantically on his lower lip. "Jay?" he whispers, not caring to check to see if any cops are listening in – Jason was such a common name anyway that it can't truly matter now, can it? He just can't call him Hood right now, because the way Jason is lying, unconscious, bloodied, broken… it's not the indestructible Red Hood. It's Jay, the scrawny little kid Bruce had dragged out of Crime Alley one night, the boy he'd helped train, the Robin he'd swung side-by-side with until the fateful day Joker had stolen the kid's life right from underneath him and the Batman.

And he'll be damned if he allows the psychotic bastard to do it a **_second_** time.

"Jay, wake up!" He shakes the unresponsive figure a bit harder, panic now getting a firm grip on him as he tries to think of what to do. The ambulances are roaring right up to them now, three squad cars and the commissioner himself directly behind them; but can they get on those vehicles? Of course not. Hospitals mean unmasking, unmasking means… everything. No, no… they have to do something else. Batman. Call Batman. His little voice of reason is finally heard. _Call Bruce, get him to send the Batmobile, tell him Alfred needs to prepare the medical ward because Tim and Jay need help…_

He fumbles with his ear comm. even as doubt reasons, _But Jason would never let you take him back to the Cave. He hasn't been there since…_

Since before he'd _died_ as sixteen-year-old Robin.

_But that doesn't matter now_, he tells himself. _He's hurt, he's __**dying**__, look at him! He needs help, and he can wipe the alleys with my ass later if he wants, but…_

His fingers are completely uncooperative, and finally he jerks his little radio out of his ear altogether and starts randomly hitting the tiny, **_tiny _**little buttons on it, trying to get it to work, not realizing it's already been broken back in the earlier fight with more Joker goons that had showed up after Red Robin's and the clown's disappearance. He grits his teeth and growls in frustration before he happens to look up and catch Robin's quizzical frown. Damian is staring at him warily, frowning. "Nightwing, what are you doing?" he demands, voice stiff but also layered with worry underneath the clipped tones. "I have already taken the liberty of sending for the Batmobile – it'll be here shortly."

Oh. So that was why he'd heard the littlest Wayne's voice earlier while he was mentally begging Jay and Tim not to die. "Did…" He pauses and clears his throat, slightly wincing as his neck and head erupt in a small inferno of pain. "…did you explain to Oracle what's going on?"

A snort. "Of course not. After I called in, Batgirl proceeded to rudely demand information from me; I attempted to report, yet she kept interrupting. I then told her she would be informed after our return and hung up."

He would've chastised the boy if Damian's face weren't so undignified, and if he weren't so out of his mind with worry. "Okay, okay. We'll just wait for the Batmobile…"

"Nightwing?"

"Yeah?"

"Why is Todd here?"

He looks down at Jason, and represses a shudder. "It's his side of the highway; Red Robin must've chased him over here." _And then Joker must've blown them up._

Damian simply gives one quick nod before going back to fiddling with his gauntlet, masked eyes flickering back and forth between the armored glove and Tim. There had always been ice between Robin and Red Robin; yet even now, Dick can easily see through the child's façade and into the worry that the biological son of the Batman is struggling to conceal. Damian is worried for Tim, and probably for Jason as well. Dick can tell. He can always tell.

Gordon approaches them, huffing from running, the lines on his face more prominent with anxiety as he takes in the scene with one quick, sweeping gaze. "I've got two buses on their way right now, only seconds behind me," he states after a moment, leaving out how he'd practically crashed his squad car to cut the emergency EMT's off as soon as he'd realized all four 'Bat Boys' were involved. Ever since the first appearance of Robin, James (Jim) Gordon had kept a close eye on whom he suspected were the Batman's sons – children brought into the deadly game of criminal justice. He'd vowed long ago to watch them, protect them if necessary; now, he eyes two unmoving forms on the ground, and swallows the lump of charcoal that had appeared in his throat. He's taken aback when he recognizes one of the bodies as the Red Hood, the pariah of the entire Bat-clan, but doesn't comment on it. Instead, he keeps his attention focused on Nightwing, the child he'd kept his eye on ever since the boy was nine and first emerged in that green and red armor. "I don't know where Batman is right now – I sent word for the light to be put on though. Meanwhile, I'm going to insist you let my men take care of this **_and _**Hood and Red Robin for now…"

Gordon's always trying to get them into hospitals and clinics; and while he knew the man simply wanted to help, wanted to help **_them _**personally (sometimes he thought Jim actually suspected he was protecting them from Batman himself) Nightwing can't allow it. He knows protocol; and no matter how much his brothers' condition frightens him at the moment, he can't break procedure. _Wait for the Mobile to show up, get Tim and Jason in, get back to the Cave, and let Alfred and Bruce fix everything. _"We've already got the Batmobile on its way," he says, his voice sounding much calmer than the storm inside him. "Send the buses away – we don't need them."

Gordon shoes all the other nosy cops away, knowing they would only hinder whatever persuasion he's about to try. Once they give them all some distance, he kneels down next to Nightwing and the Red Hood, frowning beneath his copper mustache, glaring with concern and empathy through his glasses. "Son, please… I don't know where Batman is right now, and your brothers look **_bad_**." He doesn't hesitate to use the term brothers; he's used it before a few times, and he has no doubt now that the bond between all these vigilantes runs deeper than comrades. Their familial. "I can vouch that nothing will be… unmasked… or pried into. We just need to get them looked at." His frown deepens when he notices the dried blood caking the younger man's neck, face, and back of his head. "You look pretty beat up yourself… the Joker really did a number on all of you…"

Gordon's proposal sounds tempting; to just hop in the those red cars and be stitched up, taken care of, without having to pull the needle through his own skin or face Batman's stoic "I told you so" expression. Because that's no doubt what they're going to receive. The man hadn't wanted them on **_routine patrol_** without him; certainly hadn't wanted them chasing **_Joker _**around Gotham while he was under 'Cave arrest'. _And he was right_, he think wearily, not responding to Gordon and making the commissioner's worry expand. _This is all my fault. I acted impulsively, I let Tim enter this territory, I failed to check on Jay earlier, forgot to warn him…_

He must've been hit harder than he'd thought; his head swims, everything blurs around him.

So he does not notice at first when the Batmobile plows through the sea of cops and emergency professionals, causing them all to leap frantically out of the way lest they get mowed down.

Doesn't notice Gordon asking once more to be allowed to help them even as Damian shoves Tim into the back of the black vigilante car, and then starts dragging Jason inside.

Only snaps back into reality when Robin grasps his upper arm, shouting for him to "Move!" because Gordon was forcing himself on them, getting his men ready to **_drag_** those children with him. Because he'd had enough of the Batman putting these boys in danger, forcing them to keep secrets too big, to live a life never meant for kids their age.

But they'd been through this before, several times. Nightwing collects himself long enough to hurl himself into the Mobile, Damian scrambling in behind him before the doors seal. Batman, no doubt at the controls in the Cave, sends the car into autopilot; and they are on the road before the police have time to respond. Gordon can only watch as they speed away.

Dick blinks weakly at Jason and Tim lying in the back, telling them silently to just hang on, they'll be home safe; and Jason, you can be furious at me as long as you want, but you're going to the Cave for help. Then, he sighs, and sinks deeper into the passenger seat, fingers numbly scraping his mask off his face. No more Nightwing – just Dick now. Even though his mind reminds him that Joker must've escaped. Ugh, how he just wants this night to **_end_**…

"Grayson?" Damian is staring at him from the driver's side, one eyebrow raised above the mask as he studies him. "What's the matter with you?"

His blue eyes just stare lazily back at him, glazed, unfocused. Damian says more to him, but he can't hear him right… he sounds so far away… Black blobs attack his vision, and he knows something isn't right, because his head doesn't hurt anymore, he isn't in anymore pain, but Damian looks really worried now is seems to be **_shouting _**at him. But he doesn't hear a thing.

Damian stares, horrified, at Dick as the older boy's eyes roll back and he collapses in the chair, going limp just like Jason and Tim, fresh blood beginning to ooze from the blossoming wound on the back of his head…

* * *

**A/N 2: yeah, just had to put a wee bit of Nightwing!whump here, hehe. There won't be a lot, but it'll be here :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: thank you so much to all who reviewed the last chapters... reviews really, truly help an author get chapters out quicker, I guaruntee it. So, gracias to all those that bothered to tell me how they are enjoying things; and if any of you have something you'd like to see in the story, or something your expecting, tell me also! **

**This chapter I'm still _not _quite pleased with, but meh. At least its out here. I'm doing my best to not do anything OOC, but if you notice, let me know. **

* * *

_"…__and Grayson's out too, I can't wake him up, I've __**tried**__…"_

"Okay, okay, Robin, just slow down. Tell me again…"

_"__Are you deaf, you incompetent imbecile?! Grayson is hurt! And, and so are Drake and… and… __**Todd**__ is here, and he's hurt too! I've told you already! I need you to make the Batmobile go __**faster**__!"_

Oracle winces at the insolent yet panicked tone of young Robin. She would've scolded him, had he not sounded so **_afraid_** at the moment; and judging from his report on his brothers' injuries, he has a right to be. "I have the Mobile going at the fastest pace possible **_without _**endangering the citizens of Gotham," she says with a forced calmness, wondering just what the hell had happened, how could everything go so wrong? "Batman is with Alfred, and they're setting up the medical ward now…"

_"__We're not going __**fast enough**__!"_

When had been the last time she'd heard Damian Wayne so exasperated, so undignified, sounding so much like the twelve-year-old he should be? Two months ago, after the Batman and his four sons had all been kidnapped and beaten, and then the brothers poisoned with Joker gas and forced to fight each other to death while Bruce chased the clown around the catacombs and caves in the dark… She shudders at the recollection and takes a deep breath. "Robin," she states finally, keeping her voice level. Controlled. Soothing. "They'll be okay. Don't worry. You're only two minutes away."

A pause. _"You're not looking at them, Gordon."_

Yes, she's not at the moment – but there had been plenty of other times when she'd been forced to just sit and watch Dick or one of the others lie helpless, bleeding out, or broken, or near death, and she couldn't do a thing. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she tries not to imagine just how **_bad _**they must all be right now. _They're fine, Dick's fine, they'll come in, we'll patch them up, they'll all be arguing and fighting with each other in a __**day**__… they're fine…_ The mantra doesn't really help, so she stops, and refocusing her attention on calming Robin down. "Damian, are they secure and steady?"

_"__I think so. Maybe. They're all breathing, but… there's blood everywhere…"_

She ignores the chill that sends down her spine. "Okay then… sit back and look out the window, Robin. Don't look at the blood…"

_"__It's snowing again – a whiteout. I can't see anything."_

Her fingers drum against the desk. "Okay, then, well… sit tight. You're a minute away."

_"__We're not going fast enough."_

Just then, she hears fast-paced thumps against the floor – Batman's footfalls. She'd know them anywhere. She turns to find the man stride towards the entrance to the Cave, Alfred right on his heels. Both men are wheeling gurneys, and her stomach seizes painfully. As he passes, Bruce's haggard expression turns to her, lips set in a thin line, eyes dark and steel. "Tell Damian to triage their injuries to me," he orders, and she nods, biting her lip. She reconnects the comm. line. "Robin, can you tell me whose injured the worst so Batman can get them out f…"

_"__Grayson. Get Grayson out."_

The words are too rushed, and she knows he's not thinking it through. It's no secret that out of all his older predecessors, Dick Grayson was the only one that had managed to **_fully_** plaster himself into the youngest Wayne's life – being the older brother Damian had never had, being the father he needed when Bruce had been presumed dead a year or so before. While to hear the child's affection for his brother is endearing (because it's just so rare), she knows she can't allow that to become a hindrance right now. "Robin, I need you to be **_honest_**," she says in a firmer tone.

_"__Grayson was injured earlier, the back of his skull and neck…"_

She sucks in a deep breath, and closes her eyes. "I know, Damian. He'll be okay; but Red Robin and Hood were in an explosion and my bet is that they are worst off. Just take a quick look over, like you were trained, and triage them, please. Honestly, tell me in order, from worst to better, how bad are they?"

There's a long pause, and she hears the doors to the Cave's tunnel sliding open as she gets her answer.

_"__Triage: Hood is a one, Drake a two… Grayson's a three."_

Which meant Dick was better off, and he would be treated later on after the one and two's were dealt with. She thanks Damian for the information, reassures him quickly once more, and hollers over to Bruce the information. The Batman tenses visibly when she says Jason Todd's name, she notices, and she herself becomes wired. Bringing the Red Hood, **_here_**, into the **_Batcave_**, was something she never thought she'd see. Not after everything that had happened between Jason and Bruce, not after all the scars and wounds that had not yet quite healed.

But they'd all have to just suck it up and deal with the familial squabbles later, she tells herself firmly just as the Batmobile screeches to a stop onto the landing platform, the tires practically smoking as Bruce and Alfred race forward, the former reaching the vehicle first. He rips the back door open, and even from a distance, she can see him pale as he takes in the sight of his two middle offspring. After only a stunned second, he then proceeds to extract one limp, blood-covered figure from the back seats.

_Oh God…_

Tim isn't moving, isn't responding to Alfred and Bruce's calls. He's laid out on a stretcher, and the English butler proceeds to wheel him towards the medical ward while Bruce ducks back into the mobile for a moment, this time emerging with a larger, broader, even more broken frame in his grasp.

It's been a long time since she's seen Jason – even longer since she's seen him without that horrid helmet over his face. So she can't help but gasp slightly as she sees his familiar – yet so different – face, with the red mask over his eyes just like when he was Robin. He's older, more muscular than she remembers, but definitely Jason Todd. There can be no doubt, and she sits in her wheelchair, dazed, as Bruce forsakes the gurney and choses to carry Jason toward the med bay in his arms, cradling him with a tenderness she has rarely – if ever – seen in the Batman. She can't help but wonder when was the last time he's been with the Red Hood, and they **_weren't _**trying to kill each other? They're relationship has been less fatal lately, yes; but they are still adversaries, no doubt. Part of her even wonders if this is all a ruse of his, just to get him inside the Batcave, just so he can make another one of his foul moves against the family he blames yet cares for all the same…

But as soon as Bruce rushes past, and she sees all the blood and ash and the stench of smoke still clinging to the young man, she shatters any possibility that this isn't anything but **_reality_**. One look at Jason's battered form and she knows this is touch and go – and she can see Bruce knows this as well, from the way he walks to the little pulsing veins pressing against his temple. He disappears into the medical ward just as Alfred returns with the gurney, reminding her suddenly that Dick is still in the Mobile with Damian. This time, she starts to push herself forward in her chair, following the Englishman, cursing the Joker once more for paralyzing her, preventing her from rushing forward to check on the young man she'd known since he'd first come under Bruce Wayne's care. She reaches the Batmobile long after Alfred, and arrives in time to see Alfred gently easing Dick's slender frame out of the car with Damian's aid.

"Is he alright?" She can't stop the worry from saturating her words, the breathlessness of her voice, the painful pounding of her heart. Dick isn't moving, isn't responsive. There's blood still leaking from a nasty gash from the nape of his neck, soaking the back of his Nightwing suit, and she cringes at the sight of it. She seen Dick in rough shape before, but it doesn't make it any easier.

Before she can receive the answer she so desperately needs, a _ping _sound echoes throughout the Cave, signally someone is entering. And seconds later, a blonde headed woman with glasses and a large black bag comes scurrying down the steps, her expression grave but stoic. Professional. Everyone breathes a small sigh of relief, and Bruce immediately hails the Leslie over.

"Dr. Tompkins, over here."

Barbara wonders how Bruce can manage to sound so calm, when she **_knows _**he's trembling inside. Not with fear, but worry. And anger. She can see it in his eyes already: _Joker will pay for this_.

She almost feels sorry for the clown. Almost.

And the feeling goes away completely when she once again eyes her friend (sometimes boyfriend, though she denies it) get laid on the gurney before being swept away by Alfred. The elder is pallid and fretting, but not for the first time does she marvel at his calm serenity, his professionalism, his unwavering duty to the Wayne family and all its occupants. She hurries after him, pushing her chair along, keeping pace with him. She stops when Alfred nears an empty medical cot and, once again with a silent Damian's help, shifts Dick onto the sterile white sheets. Almost immediately, the cloth beneath his head and back is stained a crimson red.

"Tell me he's going to live," she demands suddenly, setting her lips into a fine line. "I know you're not supposed to, I know you **_can't_**… but just say it. For my sake. Tell me he'll live."

The man looks at her with warm eyes, and quickly does a check over Dick before, for the first time tonight, his lips form a tiny smile. "I am pleased to say, Miss Barbara, that Master Dick **_shall _**live. He's suffered a substantial blow to the back of his cranium, which I'll have Dr. Leslie examine as soon as she is able; in the meantime, I shall set up an IV, and I see no reason to worry." The smile dissolves as he peers over towards the other two curtained cells, one with Bruce and Tim, and the other with Tompkins and Jason. When he turns to face her again, he seems so much older. "Now…" he says slowly, quietly. "Now, you tell **_me_**, Miss Barbara… tell me our boys will be alright."

_Our boys. _It's so rare to hear one of the Bat family use a familial term so openly – even Alfred is always such a personification of properness. She purses her lips and forces a weak smile, more for his sake than his own. "They'll be okay," she manages to choke out, one of her hands catching Dick's cool one, while her eyes travel back to where Leslie is now calling out for Bruce to come, and come quick, something is happening. To Jason. _The prodigal son finally returns, and look at what circumstances have brought him here. _Fate is so, so cruel… "They'll be okay," she repeats in a whisper. "We'll be okay."

_Please, let us be okay. _


	5. Chapter 5

He hates reports. All the adventures and tragedies and pains and hurting all bunched together into a simple paper with black and white text, so cold, so unfeeling. It seems so cruel, to morph the calamities into literature. It takes away the reality of it; and yet, at the same time, it makes everything all **_too _**real. Reports confirm his worst fears, his worst nightmares.

This reports puts three of his four sons bed-ridden, one with a major concussion, another with a minor concussion, and the third barely having escaped being paralyzed for life.

At the moment, Bruce Wayne would do anything to go back to his former gift of being emotionless, his former ability to just shut the world of feeling **_out_**. It would make things so much easier right now. As soon as Dick Grayson had entered his life, that ability had slowly crumbled; and now it had all but dissolved. Sure, he can simply pull back on the cowl and become Batman. Batman is stoic, a frozen rock, unstoppable. But the problem is, right now his family needs **_Bruce_**, not Batman, and to do don the cowl now would be the same as shoving them all out into the snow outside and shouting "fend for yourselves" before locking the door.

No. He has to handle this as his sons' father, not their mentor. He needs to get control of the situation and take care of it, not hide away in the shadows. He can't do that anymore. Not with Damian and Dick and Tim needing him; and now Jason as well. Jason hasn't needed him in so long, tension and dread pits in his gut every time he thinks of it too closely. So he doesn't. He doesn't examine it, doesn't dissect the circumstances and try to solve every aspect of it. Instead, he simply continues to stare at the cruel piece of paper in his white-knuckle grip as he tries to come to terms that this has all happened. _I sent them out there_, he tells himself angrily as he clutches Dr. Tompkins' report even harder. _I was sloppy one night, and had to sit out the next. So I send my __**sons **__out there to fight the __**Joker**_ – _what was I thinking? – and now look what's happened. What was a __**thinking**__? How could I be so stupid as to…_

"You're doing it again," a weak voice calls over to him from a medical cot behind him. He startles – and when does **_Batman _**startle unless he's completely taken by surprise or so enveloped in his thoughts he might as well be out of orbit – and turns to see an unmasked Nightwing gazing at him gently through half-lidded, drugged eyes. Bruce can't help but smile slightly at the sight of his eldest awake, and he shifts his position in his chair so he's facing the young man. "I'm doing what again?" he asks, and Dick rolls his eyes, obviously not so drugged that he can't manage gently chastising his adoptive father.

"That whole 'it's all my fault' brooding crap," he replies firmly, grazing his fingers over Bruce's hunched shoulder. The older man catches the pale hand and holds it tight. "This isn't on you, Bruce," Dick continues in a hoarse whisper. "So stop brooding. It's unbecoming, y' know."

He smile widens a bit, more out of endearment than actually amusement. Only Dick, and Alfred, could get him to drop his defenses completely like this. He shakes his head lightly at the boy and purses his lips. "You know I can't help it," he admits quietly, wishing once again that he could just put up the black cowl and just pummel Joker into the concrete instead of facing the fact that his sons had been injured because of **_him_**.

Dick's fierce throat-clearing snaps him out of his reverie once more. "Seriously, Bruce, cut it out."

"How do you always know?"

"Same way Alfred does," he answers easily.

"Familial instinct?"

"Actually, when you're blaming yourselves you get this weird little line in between your eyes. Makes you look older, and I **_hate _**it. So, if you really wanna be of help, you can remove these stupid medical curtains so I can see for myself that Tim and Jay are okay and alive."

"You were awake during Leslie's report no doubt," Bruce smirks.

"See? We know **_each other _**so well. Aaand the curtains are still here, hint-hint."

He pats his son's shoulder and stands up, moving to the shower-curtain like sheets that hang in-between each medical cell. "I knew you'd want to see them, so you're in the middle. Tim's over here. Minor concussion, bruised ribs, one of them cracked, multiple bruises and lacerations that have already been stitched… but, you already know that." He tears the white sheet away, and is once again rocked by Tim's lithe, fragile frame, swathed in sterile bandages which covered the worst of the wounds, but not the artwork of green and purple bruises marring the white skin. His fist tangles in the sheet, and his teeth grind together in another wave of rage. _You won't get out of this one in anything but a body cast, Joker. _

"Bruce…"

Dick's warning forces him to turn away from Tim and run a hand over his lined face, exhaling loudly. "I know, I know, I'm calming down." He crosses Nightwing's cell and, after a moment of preparing himself, tears away the barricade separating Red Hood.

Jason is so… still. He broad frame is just as bandaged as Tim's, even more so, and the red mask he wears beneath his helmet has been torn away. Leaving his identity as the marksman Hood stripped away. Leaving him as Jason Todd, twenty-years-old, two years younger than Nightwing, but looking so much younger. There's still the stains of dried blood across the young man's face, the cause for the blood flow covered by the thick gauze and medical tape that Tompkins had swathed his forehead with. Jason is just as tall as Bruce, but lying there on the cot he looks smaller, almost like the small Robin that he'd once been, fighting side-by-side with Batman and Nightwing, content. Happy.

He still feels anger upon gazing at his second-oldest, but Jason also leaves a sour taste of regret in his chest and mouth. It didn't matter that Red Hood practically hated him, or that they never saw each other except for news reports; he'd promised himself multiple times that he'd make sure the Joker never laid another twisted paw on Jason Todd. And now he had. He can't even find words to explain to himself the storm that's brewing.

"I heard Dr. Tompkins say he had a major concussion," Dick's worried voice sounds behind him. "Head trauma, fractured leg, severe burns, broken ribs, lacerations, bruises, almost had internal bleeding…" His voice trails off, as if he's thinking hard, before he adds. "Bruce, promise me you're not going to do something stupid because of this."

The hairs on the back of his neck bristle, and his posture visibly tightens. There are gears churning in his head now as he realizes once again just how serious this had been; **_Jason _**is here, in the Batcave, because of the Joker, for the first time since his death. And the sadistic clown is still **_out there_**.

Dick stares anxiously at the man's back, frowning. "Bruce, you're not gonna go and…"

"He nearly killed you all tonight." His voice is harder, colder, no longer filled with paternal gentleness but venom. It's Batman's voice. "He nearly killed every single one of you, and I would've just sat here and **_watched_**."

"You couldn't have done anything…"

"I could've been **_out there _**with you all." He turns, but instead of facing Dick, he starts marching deeper into the Cave, where the suits hang. "I should've been **_catching _**that freak, not you. I'm gonna fix this."

"There's nothing to fix, Bruce!" _Biggest lie __**ever**_. "I also heard Dr. Tompkins say GCPD had a solid lead on the Joker! You can't go out there!" But Bruce doesn't turn around. He keeps on marching out of sight, until he's disappeared. Alarms ringing in his head now, Dick sits up fully and starts scrambling out of the bed to go after him; but the drugs make his movement sluggish, and they don't even do their job fully it seems, because his head screams in protest as soon as he bends over to swing his legs over the side. "Gah! Bruce, you can't go out there!" He remembers clearly the damage inflicted by the drug-bust-gone-wrong a few days ago, the blood smearing the Dark Knight's armor, the groans of pain the Batman had released despite his best efforts not to. The recollection only makes his panic soar as Dick looks around for someone to help stop Bruce from being stupid; except for his comatose brothers on either side of him, there is not one. "Alfred! Babs! Damian?! I need you!"

To his horror, he hears the Batmobile roar to life. "Bruce, stop! You're going to get yourself **_killed_**! Bruce?! BRUCE!"

* * *

He would've preferred swinging through the night with his lines, but even through his haze of anger and regret and pure, unquenchable **_rage _**does he know that to do so would inflict more damage than good. Even in the Batmobile his muscles ache and his ribs whimper, while the throbbing pulse in his head refuses to go away. But he doesn't turn around, nor does he answer the comm. line that soon begins steadily beeping. He knows its Oracle, or Alfred, or maybe even Dick if the boy had managed to drag himself out of the medical ward and into the war center of the Cave. He feels a twinge of guilt for a brief moment, remembering Dick screaming after him, but it dissipates soon enough. He's Batman now, not Bruce. The lenses are over his eyes, and so everything he sees is red.

The Mobile several blocks away from the wreckage once known as the Warp, and he slips into the shadows easily on foot. He can see the acrid smoke still lingering in the air, even though the large flakes that fall lazily down on him are growing more numerous and descending faster. He slides past the officers that are still combing the area with Gordon still leading, and begins his examination in the back area of the club, where the police have not yet combed. It's near the alley, and since Red Robin and Hood had not been found here, it has not been paid much attention.

Except Batman is intent on giving it **_plenty _**of attention; because he knows Joker better than anyone. And there's always a message, always. It just takes some time to find it. He eventually does, the words burned into the ground beneath a charred dumpster, the phrases sending spikes of antagonism coursing through his veins once more.

**_Leave the kiddies at home, Bats, and we'll have our date. _**

**_Come find me…_**

The last words are written in blood, and the faint stench of ammonia tells him that he will not be able to get DNA from the words.

**_…_****_and we'll get the game started._**

"You're on, Joker," he grinds out through clenched teeth. _I know you think my family makes me weak. But your wrong. They make me stronger. I'll come after you, and I'll come alone; but don't think for one second that it'll be anything like it was before Robin appeared. Because, back then, it was only __**me **__on the line, and that made me angry._

_But now you've touched __**them**__, again. And this time, there will be hell to play._

_Yeah. Let the games begin._

* * *

**A/N: so, how'd I do with Bruce's POV?**


	6. Chapter 6

_He can't breathe. There's not enough oxygen left to fill his lungs, and his racing pulse (spurred on by his panic) is taking more life out of him than his weary body can replace. "Btmn…" he chokes out, trying to scream out his mentor's, his savior's, his __**father's**__ name; but all that comes out is this weak, pathetic croak that isn't worth the precious breath it took to force it out. He bits down on his lip and goes back to digging his way out of the damn wooden prison entrapping him. Droplets of crimson fall from his fingertips and wet his chapped lips, and he tastes copper. Good. If he can bleed, he is alive. If he can taste, he's alive._

_If he can feel this desperate, this agonized, this __**scared**__, then he is alive._

_How he doesn't know, and he doesn't care. Right now, he just needs to focus on getting out, getting to Bruce, getting __**home**__. He ignores the fact that he has no fingernails left, that his hands are soaked with blood, that his head throbs with lack of oxygen. He feels some of the wood give, and his heart rate increases, this time with hope. _

_But then, something goes wrong. He feels the wood shift again, even though he's torn most of the nerves in his fingers, and realizes that it isn't the material breaking. It's the material __**fixing **__itself. Moving into place. He gasps, choking on the starving inhale, and it's only a few seconds after that when he runs his palms over the wood above him, only to find it completely renewed. No breaks, no cracks… not even a single claw mark. It's healed itself, impossibly, and once again, he is completely trapped._

No, no, no, oh God, please no…_ He hammers his fists against this horrid, damned coffin, and as unconsciousness finally takes him into eternal sleep, Jason hears his throat force out a half sob, half scream. His last breath._

_"__**BATMAAAAAAAAN…!**__"_

* * *

Jason Todd's formerly-still body suddenly arches on the medical cot's mattress, a violent series of convulses soon taking over as the machines the young man is attached to begin to screech and scream warnings. Immediately, Leslie Thompkins is pinning the unmasked Red Hood's arms down, while Alfred grasps his ankles and a haggard Dick Grayson throws himself across his younger brother's chest in an effort to control the seizes. "What's happening?!" Nightwing manages to call out as he holds onto the trembling, convulsing Jason as tightly as he can.

"Keep him restrained!" Leslie replies quickly and forcefully as she attempts to get her patient's pulse down to a count. "Could be anything – asphyxiation, heart problems, just a simple nightmare… give me a sec to get a read on his vitals… damn it, I'm gonna have to strap him down!"

Restraints are pulled out from underneath the mattress, and with swift, skilled fingers, Thompkins gets one of Jason's flailing hands beneath the leather buckles. Alfred manages to bind the former Robin's ankles, while Dick remains gripping the younger boy until both the doctor and the butler manage to finalize the confining of Todd.

Even when Jason's small seizure ends, Dick can't bring himself to lift his head from where it's pressed against Jason's heartbeat. The thumping sound, though quicker than normal, is rather soothing. It's a reminder, that Jason is alive, despite all odds, and that it'll be a flash before he's back up running around with his guns and that stupid helmet of his. _He's fine_, he tells himself as his forehead picks of the rising and falling of Jason's chest. _He'll be fine. He's beaten __**death**__ before… this is nothing compared to __**that**__. He'll be fine, and when Bruce comes back, maybe everything might even work out. Maybe Jason will be grateful for the help, maybe he'll stay at the Manor to heal, maybe everything won't go to hell like I fear it will…_

"Master Dick?" Alfred's sound reaches his ears, floating down soothingly as the elder places a comforting hand on his shoulder. Dick forces himself to look up, to try and act stronger than he actually feels, and looks up with bleary, dizzy eyes as his surrogate grandfather frowns down at him. "Master Dick," the man repeats. "I believe that the situation is under control now, should you wish to return to your cot…"

Alfred sounds relieved that the small crisis involving Todd has passed, and Leslie is efficiently going over Jason for any more complications; but Dick doesn't trust the signs. He knows it too well, how everything can seem just fine, simply perfect, before all of hell comes crashing down. So, in response to Alfred's gentle insisting, he shakes his head wearily and slumps back down so that his face is lying beside Jason's side, forehead pressed against one of the younger boy's bare arms, eyes sliding shut as exhaustion fights for dominance.

Somewhere in the background noise, Damian is still involved in a bantering argument with Tim, whose been awake for two hours now. Even amongst all the confusion and stress and noise, Dick can hear the computers in the main part of the cave beep several times as an hourly alarm. It is now eight in the morning. And Bruce is still missing.

_Why do you have to be so goddamn stubborn?_ he mentally reproofs his mentor/guardian/father. _Why couldn't you just stay here until we could call in the League or __**someone **__to help? Why couldn't you just keep that damn __**cowl **__off you for more than ten minutes so I wouldn't be bedridden __**and **__worried sick to my stomach about you?_

Alfred's hand tightens around his shoulder, and Dick can tell the man wants to continue insisting he should return to his own bed; but then something stops him, and with a gentle sigh, he walks away. Maybe Leslie had shaken her head, or maybe Alfred had realized on her own that Dick wasn't going **_anywhere _**right now. Either way, Dick was left alone, and he slumped even further down until he was on his knees by his brother's bedside, clutching at the sheet that's draped over Jason's now-motionless form, praying to whatever God might exist to just keep an eye on them. Because **_whenever _**the Joker becomes involved, it's no secret that Gotham becomes a spawning grounds for all sorts of ugly demons.

And it's also rather normal for the Bat family to be right in the thick of everything.

* * *

_"__You will __**not **__speak to me in that tone in __**my **__house!" Bruce roars, fists clenched at his sides as he glares down at the defiant teen standing across the room from him. _

_"__Funny, cause I thought it was __**our **__house!" Jason spits right back, growling as he nearly punches a hole in the wall beside him. "Y' know, sharing comes with adoption! __**Our **__house, __**our **__family, __**our **__family business!"_

_"__You're not __**ready **__for that business!"_

_"__You've been training me for over a year!" the boy practically screams. "You've pushed me to my breaking point, then over! If I can endure __**you**__, I can endure __**anyone**__!"_

_"__You go out there, you get yourself killed!"_

_"__I stay in here, I might just KILL MYSELF!"_

_"__JASON!"_

_Just as Bruce's roar echoes throughout the entire manner, Dick runs into the room, wide eyed. "What's going on in…?"_

_"__Dick, leave," Bruce says immediately, his eyes not leaving Jason's though his voice drops from furious to gentle in just a few seconds. "This isn't a good time for us to go out tonight, I'll talk to you late…"_

_Suddenly, rejection adds onto the list of wounds in his gut, and Jason points an accusing finger at the man in front of him, eyes flashing. "So __**that's **__why I can't go out with you tonight?! Not because you changed your mind about me being ready, but because you just wanted to patrol with __**him**__! Your __**real **__son!"_

_Dick's eyes soften as he gazes at his adoptive brother. "Jay…"_

_Jason won't listen. He doesn't want to. If he looks at Dick, he'll start to feel bad, and he'll start to feel foolish for starting this damn fight in the first place. So he grits his teeth and continues attacking Bruce. "I'll never go out on patrol because I'll never be your precious Dick Grayson!" he shouts out. "I'll never fit into the mold, I'll never be your perfect Robin! Why'd you even bother training me if I'll never hit the streets?! I'll never be by your side, because if I ever do, all you'll ever want is your old Robin back! Your beloved fucking Golden Boy!"_

_"__**ENOUGH**__!" _

_The scream of a lion is enough to stun Jason into fearful silence. He's pushed boundaries before, spent his entire life doing it. But he's never pushed __**this **__far before. Never outright bashed Dick, whose done nothing but try to love him. Never gotten Bruce this red-faced, this livid, this __**enraged**__. "You will __**not **__speak like that of an adult!" the man roars as he takes a step forward. Jason takes a step back. "And you will __**NEVER **__speak to __**Dick **__like that EVER AGAIN! Now go to your room and __**stay **__there until I send for you! Even __**think **__about going out the window and I will have GCPD on you in a minute, flat! Now GO!"_

_Jason goes, scowling, heart pounding as he races up the stairs. To his shame and horror, he feels wet rivulets run down his cheeks. He wipes them away angrily as he rushes into the room he'd been assigned, slamming the door behind him. "Send for me…" he chokes out as he collapses onto his bed, burying his head into the pillow just as the first sob comes out. "…you'll never send for me, you bastard." He tries to bring up more ill will against Dick, but finds he can't. He gives up after a minute, and just succumbs to the rage and hurt tearing himself apart. "No one will ever send for __**me**__…"_

* * *

Damian Wayne looks up with concealed concerned as he hears Todd's life support machinery once again picking up a rapid pulse and labored breathing. He makes ready to go over there in case the older boy decides to go into another minor seizure, but before he can even stand up, Thompkins is by Todd's bedside, adjusting the IV bags and adding sedatives. The machines stop screeching, and all is calm once more.

Once he sees that the adults are finally on top of the situation, Damian eases himself back down so that he's returned to his former position – perched on a chair that's located at the foot of Drake's bed. Drake, whose fallen asleep once more, ebony hair cascading over the white bandages that envelope the teen's forehead. It makes him look like a mummy, and Damian snorts at the thought. It's a similar look to the one that Todd had used when he'd first emerged from the Lazarus Pit, the mummified look that he'd worn when he'd run around as Hush. Damian remembers seeing the pictures on the computers, and he casts another wary glance towards Todd, just daring him to get up and attack them. _Try anything and I'll ruin you_, the youth mentally threatens, pretending not to notice how the sight of Grayson lying so closely to the other boy disturbs him, makes his gut clench. He doesn't understand how Grayson can trust Hood so much. _Hurt him in the slightest way_, he adds onto his silent words to Todd as he casts a glance at Drake. _Hurt __**any **__of them, and, I swear it, I will __**destroy **__you._

* * *

_He's cold, so, __**so **__cold. And his arm throbs from where the cruel, uncaring motorist had struck him with a bike earlier. Wandering down Crime Alley, he wraps his arms around himself and clenches his teeth together to the point where his jaw hurts. He could be __**dead **__right now, and no one would care. Not even his mother. He could see that now. She didn't give a damn about anyone or anything but her precious __**drugs**__._

_And to think he's spent the past three days __**looking **__for the bitch, hoping he'd find her, still believing he could fix their screwed up lives. Now, wet and in pain and desperate for something that could buy him food to eat, young Jason Todd leans back against a reeking dumpster and bows his head in misery. _

_That's when something shining in the storm catches his eye, and he looks in time to see four beautiful, shining chrome wheel plates directly before him. He can tell immediately: they must cost a few thousand, and they are in __**perfect **__condition. It's like God hasn't forgotten about this little street wretch after all, and Jason is ecstatic._

_Only thing is, those money-representing-beauties are attached to none other than the Batmobile…_

* * *

Bruce Wayne, with his bloodshot eyes blinking rapidly from underneath his cracked cowl, feels his pulse pounding throughout his skull painfully as he tries to clear his vision. When he does, he finds himself on the ground, the morning skies above him gray and drizzling. He remembers gas, knockout gas, and the sensation of blacking out, but that's about it. He looks around, trying to get his bearings, and notices water. The docks. Okay, so now he knows where he is. He's not as lost anymore, because he also recollects wandering around Gotham all night nonstop trying to find the Joker. He also remembers he's failed that goal, at least for the moment.

But then he looks up, and his breath catches as his jaw drops slightly. In his disoriented state, he can't help but shiver as he stares, horrified, at the four blood covered bodies hanging before him off a lamppost, the thick crimson fluid staining the bright red symbols on the victims' uniforms. It's not them – he knows that immediately – but Joker had caught innocent citizens **_representing _**his four sons, killed them, dressed them up in crappy, makeshift costumes that resemble the uniforms of Robin, Nightwing, Red Hood, and Red Robin, and hung them there for him to see. As a message. The words '_learn to leave the kiddies at home' _are written below the bodies, in red spray paint, on the wet pavement; and Batman, for the first time all night, shows a sign of slight weakness. He lets his head fall into the palms of his hands, and he just sits there, gritting his teeth, slowly shaking his head. _He won't get to you_, he tells his sons in his mind, closing his eyes. _He won't. Not this time. Not again_.

* * *

_He's running around desperately, finally letting his growing fear show as he continues to fail in his search for the one person whose ever been involved in his life. "Mom!" he screams, hoping she'll answer. Even if she's drunk, or high, or attached to some low-life scum whose decided to take advantage of her befuddled state, Jason won't care. As long as she'll go with him, back to their dingy apartment. As long as she's next to him, a shitty mother, but at least a __**mother**__ at all, then Jason will be satisfied._

_But she doesn't answer his calls. Numbly, he walks into the street, not looking, really not caring. Because she's left him for good this time, hasn't she? She's left her son to fend for himself, she's disappeared, and he's completely, utterly alone…_

_He doesn't see the cursing motorcycling thug until it's too late. Until he's flung into the air by the impact, until he sees that the man who'd hit him just keeps going as he hits the asphalt, until nothing but darkness remains to comfort him. That's fine, he's used to it by now… so, so used to it… "Mom…?"_

* * *

Alfred is pretty sure he has a coronary when a hand from below suddenly grabs his own wrist in a painfully tight grip, and the British butler gasps when he looks down to see Jason gazing at him through half-closed eyelids, pupils dilated, irises foggy and glazed. The elder is just about to call for Leslie when the boy lying on the cot coughs and winces, tightening his grip on the man's hand.

"Mom…?" Jason Todd grumbles thickly, voice hoarse and nearly faded out completely as the young man closes his eyes, releasing Alfred's hand. As Alfred stares, he speaks again. "Where's my mom?" The words are close together and mumbled, but still coherent.

Alfred spins around and calls for Leslie, than returns his attention to Jason so that he can figure out just what is going on. But it's too late, because as soon as he turns away, Todd falls unconscious once more, and is silent.

* * *

**A/N: in case it wasn't clear, the italicized text were nightmares/flashbacks in Jason's head, taking him from his death as Robin back to the few days before he met Batman. That's where his amnesia shall start.**


	7. Chapter 7

_"__Hello? Is anyone there?" _Batman's voice floats throughout the cave, reverberating off the rock walls, drifting throughout the various rooms and tunnels. _"I'm just checking in to confirm I'm alive and well. I have a lead on the Joker… he's planning something, and I need to put an end to it before it begins. He's… He's once again targeting Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, and Robin, and while I have no solid evidence of his plans yet, I am already beginning to suspect his next moves. I'm just calling in to confirm that there's no need to worry, and to say I will not be returning to the Cave until I collect more evidence. Be… be careful, all of you. Batman out…"_

"Wait!"

Dick throws himself across the Cave towards the computers, sliding to his knees and slamming against the desks as he desperately hit the _/REPLY/_ button. "Batman, are you still there?!" he calls into the microphone, heart sinking when he gets no reply. "Batman? **_Batman_**? Bruce?!"

Nothing.

"Damn it, damn it, **_damn it_**!"

He sinks down so that he's sitting against the nearest desk, microphone still clutched in his hands as he lets his forehead drop onto his knees. He doesn't look up, even as approaching footsteps grow louder and nearer, even as Alfred comes walking up to him and looks down in concern. "Master Dick?" the butler asks quietly. "Is everything alright?"

He shakes his head, not bothering to lift his head, but holding up the microphone to enunciate his words. "He called in," he says miserably. "Left a quick message saying he was going after the Joker. Saying the Joker was after **_us _**again… He said he won't be back for a few more days." _Why? Why can't you just let the GCPD keep the Joker running for a few days, just a few, so that you can be __**here**__? Helping __**us**__? _He knows the answer, knows that the police don't stand a chance against the Joker by themselves, but he can't help but ask the questions anyway. He feels Alfred lay a comforting hand atop his head, the sensation soothing and familiar, as the older man says, "Master Bruce is strong, Richard. When you think about it, two days really isn't a long time to be away." Dick pretends not to hear the doubt in his voice. "He'll be alright."

_Yeah, right. _

_Like anything is __**ever **__alright in this family_.

* * *

"Damian, give it back!"

"Make me."

"Don't tempt me."

"Your overconfidence is unsettling, Drake," Damian tosses back as hangs from the second floor chandelier, one hand gripping the décor lights while the other clings to a blue iPad. "I'm merely saving your eyeballs from further torture; you staring at this screen for five hours **_straight _**cannot be healthy for them."

"Like you care about my health," Tim says grudgingly, glaring up at him. "What if Alfred comes up and sees you hanging from the chandelier? Again?"

"I'll merely tell him that it's all with good intention."

"Pffft. You? Good intention?"

"Shut up, Drake."

Both boys are suddenly interrupted by a loud groan sounding from the bedroom all the way at the end of the hall, the one with the shut door, the one that neither have ever entered up until yesterday. Tim forgets his iPad in the sake of taking a step towards the room with the noise, while Damian hops down onto the floor and places the tablet on the staircase railing, cocking an eyebrow as another moan floats down the hall towards them.

"That's Jason," Tim whispers, taking another step forward.

"t-t, Drake, congratulations on becoming Captain Obvious…"

"Shut up." Tim looks over his shoulder at the frowning child, and waves him off with his hand. "He could be waking up; go get Dick and Alfred. I'll go check on Jason." He didn't wait for an answer, instead moving forward and ignoring how suddenly **_dry _**his throat has become. It's only when he reaches Jason's door that he realizes Damian is still trailing him like a shadow. A scowling shadow. "I told you to go get, Alfred," Tim hisses, irritated.

"And allow Todd to impale you as soon as you are alone with him?" Damian crosses his arms over his chest, smirking slightly. "Please, Drake, you insult me."

Tim resists the urge to defend how he doesn't need a **_child _**to watch his back, because he knows it's not true, because Robin has been there for him (despite their unbalanced relationship) on more than one night. So with a heavy sigh, he consents, and pushes open the bedroom door, stepping into the darkness.

Sure enough, Jason's eyes are halfway open, hazy and incoherent for the moment. Tim creeps over and stands at the foot of the bed, watching the older boy as he tries to wake up fully, hearing a small creak behind him followed by a little whoosh of air. He turns to find Damian perched on the nearby desk, crouched down, three batarangs laced between his fingers as he pulls them back, ready to throw. "Damian," he hisses between clenched teeth. "Cut that **_out_**."

He waits until Damian resentfully slides off the desk before turning back to Jason; whose no longer in the bed. He feels his blood chill as he jumps and quickly sweeps his eyes over the room, trying to figure out where the injured Red Hood has disappeared to…

He isn't expecting a strong hand to shoot out from under the bed, and thus lets out a panicked cry when that hand pulls him down, his back slamming painfully onto the hardwood floor and jarring his still-sore body as Jason pounces on him, growling. "Gah!"

Jason hovers over him, his hands pinning down Tim's shoulders as he straddles his chest, glaring down at the younger boy even as Damian leaps into action. The youngest Wayne tackles Todd from behind, wrapping his small arms around the man's neck and grinning darkly when Jason chokes and falls down backwards. Tim takes this time to get to his feet, just as Damian is thrown across the room. Jason gets to his feet and backs up until he's pressed against the wall, glowering at the two younger boys just as he catches sight of himself in the mirror. "What the hell?!"

"GAAAAAAH!"

Damian pounces before Tim can shout at him to wait, and soon, they are wrestling on the floor while Tim watches. He saw the look on Hood's face, one of confusion and disbelief and… could it have been fear? Probably not; but it was still a possibility, wasn't it? "Damian, cut it out!" he yells as Damian punches Todd right in the jaw, causing the older boy's head to slam back and collide with the bed post. Jason retaliates by wincing and then kicking the kid right in the gut, even as his eyes begin rolling back. "Cut it out, Damian!" Tim repeats, rushing forward. "Don't! Damian, STOP!"

* * *

His head hurts bad, so, so bad; but this scrawny child with a devilish snarl on his face won't stop attacking. The other boy is shouting something, but Jason can't hear him over the ringing in his own ears, and even as black spots continue to mar his vision, he kicks and punches and fights as hard as he can. He can't lose this, not this time. He's been in this situation before – all the boys in Dark Lord's fight club tend to scrap like mad dogs whenever a newcomer is added into their ranks – and he knows losing means serious injury. Or death. He's seen kids get their guts beat right out of their mouths by other boys their same age, and so when the demon child jumps on him once more, he doesn't feel bad when he bites down hard on the kid's shoulder, causing his enemy to cry out and retreat a bit.

Only thing is, he doesn't exactly remember signing up for another fight with Dark Lord's crew. He thought he'd been looking for his mom, who'd gone missing again, and then he'd gotten hit by the biker; the biker must've been working for Lord. That was the only explanation. He'd been hit, picked up, and dragged back into this hellish pit once more to fight to the death for survival. Perfect. And he'd thought he'd seen the last of all this when he'd dragged his mom from the Gotham 'sludge town' all the way here to Crime Alley.

When he sees himself in the mirror, something in his brain temporarily freezes when he sees not himself, but some young man wrapped in bandages and dressed in a white t-shirt and gray sweatpants. Not his clothes, because his clothes have never been without a blotch of stains… but when he looks down he sees that he's dressed in them, and that he seems to have grown. A lot. "What the hell?"

The demon kid attacks again, throwing him back against a bed post – bed post? – and making his head seem to **_explode _**in fiery pain. _But don't give into the pain. You've had worst. Get this __**thing **__off of you_! He throws the demon child back into the wall and uses this time clutch his head, feeling his eyes roll back as he desperately tries to get the **_fire _**out of his brain. _Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop_… Everything around him seems to blur, and while he hears voices shouting again, he can't make out the words or the owner of the voices. He manages to crack one eye open, and spots the demon child slinking out of the room holding his arm, while the other boy stands back and stares at him with wide eyes. Two other figures run into the room, and instinctively, he backs himself up, pushing himself across the floor until he's pressed against the nightstand. Nightstand? Bed? _What the fu…?_

An old man hovers over him, whispering words he can't understand, running gentle hands through his hair. He wants to flinch, wants to tell this stranger to leave him alone, he's in pain, he doesn't want to fight… but his body won't obey his mental commands. He's trapped here, vulnerable, with no idea what's going on. He hears the elder say something about 'head injury', and his heart races increases along with his breathing. Maybe this is a hospital? Some sort of weird, fancy hospital, without the white walls and with wooden beds and nightstands? Maybe he'd been injured really bad by that biker, and someone had actually had the decency to bring him to help? But that doesn't explain the attacking kids from earlier… though he **_had _**attacked first. Well, what was he supposed to do? Stay lying in bed, susceptible, while two strange children chatted away near him, the demon kid holding **_knives_** (or something) in his hands? What was going on? And… all this talking just makes his head hurt more, so he turns all trains of thoughts off and chooses to just pray these people don't belong to Lord. Or any of his mom's druggie friends. Or **_him_**.

The old man moves out of his line of view, and is replaced by another man, younger, just out of his teens apparently. He has dark wavy hair and deep blue eyes, and he looks so painfully **_familiar _**that Jason's muscles sudden lose their tension. He doesn't remember this young man, doesn't understand why he's touching his arm and whispering gently to him; but some part of his brain tells him this one isn't dangerous, that this young man is synonymous with **_safety_**. It's such a ridiculous idea, but when the kid with the blue eyes leans down slowly so that they are at the same level and whispers, "It's okay, Jay… you're safe. It's okay. You're safe", Jason actually believes him. A stupid move, a foolish move, but he believes him. And he lets his heavy eyelids slide shut as the blue eyed kid runs his hand over his face, not in malice, but in checking for injuries. _Just trust him_, his brain whispers. So he does. Jason falls unconscious again, and Dick looks down at his brother in concern and despair as he murmurs, "What the hell is going on?"


	8. Chapter 8

_Amnesia_.

It's the hundredth time the word rings through his mind in only a half hour, but he can't stop thinking it. Jason. With **_amnesia_**. No guns, no vengeful malice, no memories. Just Jason, who apparently doesn't remember anything after some time before meeting Batman for the first time. Which not only leaves him at a confusing, hurt, vulnerable time, but also leaves his trust levels at a flat, empty **_0%_**. Dick had seen that look in his brother's eyes before Alfred had sedated him, had seen the panic and fear there behind the angry, threatening snarls. After knocking the younger boy out, he'd helped Alfred drag Jason back onto his bed, and now Dick just sits there, staring at the pale, unconscious form lying on top of the bed sheets, fresh bandages wrapped around his injured areas, an almost peaceful expression on his face that only drugs could've given him.

Leslie and Alfred are still talking in hushed whispers near the doorway, exchanging theories and worries, that horrid word **_amnesia _**popping up almost every two sentences. Dick can hear them talking about how permanent the condition will be, how strong it is, what the consequences will be, and it makes him nauseous as the exhausted Nightwing lets his head fall onto the bed before him so that his face is resting a few inches away from Jason's still hand. _Bruce, where __**are **__you? We need you, right now, __**here**__; I honestly don't give a damn about the Joker right now, I just know that we all need you here, not out there. _

He hears a shift next to him, a rustling of fabric, and expects Alfred to pop up next to him as the elder seems to be doing often these past few days. But the hand that meekly taps his shoulder is too light and shy to be the beloved butler; Dick smiles weakly, recognizing the quiet touch immediately, and sits up straight. "Hey, Timmy. You okay?"

Tim, hair disheveled, frown etched into his face, frowns as he stares at Jason. "No," he answers bluntly. "None of us are. And don't lie and tell me everything will be, because the odds of **_anything_** being alright any time soon are several hundred to a half. Don't lie."

"Okay; no lies," he promises in reply, patting his little brother's hand before moving so that his fingers are anxiously tapping his knees. "But no blame game either."

Tim just nods, almost looking dazed as he stares at the weak, powerless Red Hood only a few feet away from him. "I can't believe all this is real," he states. "It just all seems like some sort of twisted illusion, Jason being here, Bruce gone, everything going to hell. It's all surreal, and I keep hoping maybe **_I _**got the head injury in that explosion with the Joker, and this is all just some nightmare I can wake up from. But… I'm not waking up."

Tim Drake is never this open, or honest about his emotions, and it surprises Dick a bit as he stares at the teen. The words "It'll be okay" start on his lips, but die away almost instantly. No lies. He can't say anything like that right now without being a **_fraction_** deceptive. He sighs, and is forced to just fold his arms over his chest and lower his head. "Me too."

"Gotham's Underworld is gonna start noticing soon," the younger boy goes on. "We've all been AWOL from patrol for two nights now, Batman isn't on his regular routine, and Red Hood, whose usually always lurking in some seedy corner downtown, is now up here, hidden away in the Manor. People will start talking, rumors will spread; we're gonna have chaos in a week."

Once again, he feels able only to reply with a short, hopeless answer. "I know."

"**_Everything_** is falling apart, Dick," Tim finishes as he kneels down so that he's almost at eye level with his sitting sibling. They both stare in tense silence at the boy on the bed for a while longer before Tim bites his lip. "Dick? What are we going to do?"

What can they do? Tim's words are hauntingly true – Nightwing, Red Robin, and Robin are off the streets, Red Hood has disappeared, Batman is running rampant across Gotham, and in a more personal light, Bruce is gone and Jason has amnesia… Everything really does seem to be falling apart, and even though he's suffered so much throughout his childhood and crime fighting career, he feels intimidated by the current events. Like some giant storm is coming and all he can do is watch the clouds loom closer and closer. Scared.

"I don't know, Timmy," he answers flatly. "Honestly, I don't think we can do anything at all."

* * *

_"__Dick?! Dick!"_

_"__Bruce, it hurts… I'm scared…"_

_"__I know, I know; but I need you to stay awake, okay? Tompkins! Dick? Dick, stay awake. Stay awake!"_

_"__Bruce…"_

_"__DICK!"_

As thunder cracks above the city of Gotham, Bruce Wayne – still in his now torn, soaking wet Batman suit, still exhausted, still on the streets – startles awake to find himself lying in a corner of an alleyway, behind a dumpster, rain water dripping off his armor and his vision still slightly groggy from his recent nightmare-plagued slumber. No, **_memory_**-plagued was the correct phrase, the images of Dick's first encounter with the Joker still fresh in his mind…

Unbelievable. The Dark Knight of Gotham just **_fell asleep _**on duty; the realization causes Batman to groan, and run a gauntleted hand over his cowl-covered face. There's a rough stubble of whiskers along his exposed jawline, he can feel it even with the gloves over his fingers, and the slight detail makes him wince. He shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be driving himself into the ground while who-knows-what goes on with his family back home. He **_knows _**this, but still, he can't bring himself to return to the Cave, to the Manor, to face Alfred and Dick. Tim and Damian. **_Jason_**.

He's not even sure if Jason's still there anymore, or what condition his boys are in, or just how up to their necks in shit they are all with the Joker running lose around the city like the plague. Batman doesn't bother getting up, but just sits there, mind quietly buzzing, teeth clenched, posture rigid. _What are you doing, Bruce? _What **_was _**he doing? _Running around Gotham chasing after the Joker when you __**know**__ – and don't deny it, you do – that you won't be finding his pale ass anytime soon. When you know that Dick and Jason are injured and back home, that Alfred is worried sick, that Tim and Damian are probably just as stressed… what are you doing? Get up, get out of this alleyway, get out of this suit, and go home. To them. You're family. The ones who need Bruce Wayne right now, not Batman. Get up. And just go._

Batman gets up, slowly, almost daring to think he actually hears his bones creak as he straightens and gingerly stretches. _Just go_, repeats his own mental command to himself, and he pulls out his grapnel line, blinks out the rest of the lingering sleep from his eyes, and shoots the gadget and the building rooftop up ahead, with the gargoyle growling down at him.

_Just go_. He swings high up into the air and perches on the gargoyle's head, dawn's gray rays appearing over the horizon. It's already snowing a bit, and everything is wet and dull.

_Just go_. He looks around, gets his bearings better. The lenses of his cowl zoom up to the far expanse behind the skyline, where he knows the Manor lies, waiting for its owner to return. He stands up, cape billowing to the side as a freezing zephyr catches it up in its icy grasp, and he sighs again.

_Just __**go**_.

Batman goes. He shoots his grapnel line once more, lets it hook onto something solid, and swings off into the open air, snowflakes pattering against his armor and getting swept up in his cape as he flies off. Towards his latest lead on the Joker, and away from the skyline.

Away from the Manor, and so much more.

* * *

Barbara Gordon crosses off another day on her small pocket calendar with weary eyes and a tight grimace.

The current little paper square before her reads _December 4__th_ and has a little icon of a reindeer in the corner – all the days of December were marked with some kind of Christmas-themed little decoration, Dick always grabbed the cutest things for her when he went shopping – and that also means it's been four days since December 1st. When the Joker broke out of Arkham. When Red Hood and Nightwing were injured, when Jason unwittingly moved back into the Manor, when Batman disappeared into the night. Without her consent, Oracle's mind travels back to last year, when she'd spent this same day helping decorate the Wayne mansion with her bo… with her **_friend_**… with Alfred cooking in the kitchen, Bruce struggling with his business through the hassling of the holidays, and Tim and Damian screeching at each other over the blare of a racing video game in the den. Last year, the holiday season had been the closest every they had all come to a sense of **_normalcy_**, and she'd hoped for that again.

That's her problem. She **_hopes_** a tad too much.

Because this year is something new entirely, a Jason Todd with amnesia hidden away upstairs, a rogue Dark Knight running around Gotham chasing a deranged clown through the streets, Alfred and Dick glued to the Batcave's computers hoping for word from Bruce, and Tim and Damian… well, Tim and Damian were actually doing pretty well not killing each other, with was weird and unnatural all on its own.

And speaking of the littlest Wayne, Barbara spots him in the upstairs hallway soon enough, after she wheels herself up the ramp near the stairwell (Dick had made it especially for her last year, and he'd been appropriately rewarded). The child is simply standing in the hallway, hands at his sides, a scowl ravaging his features… _just as a true Wayne should look_, she thinks with an internal sigh as she moves over towards him. "Hey." She keeps her tone light, optimistic, because that's what everyone needs right now. A touch of that nasty little habit of hers: hope. Can't hurt, right? "What are you doing here?"

"It's my father's home, Gordon, I'm here because I am in his care and placing me outside to live would bring dire charges and consequences," Damian replies dryly, not even bothering to look at her.

Ah. In his typical mood then. Barbara doesn't miss a beat. "I meant more along the lines of: what are you doing here staring at Jason's door like you're trying to fry it with a simply look?"

"Perhaps exactly that. Or perhaps I am still confused as to why Todd is still in this house; he should be taken to a hospital promptly, and…"

"And what? Become exposed as the **_dead _**son of Bruce Wayne, thus exposed eventually as the Red Hood, thus exposing **_all _**of us and our identities as the friendly, lovable Bat-clan? C'mon, Damian, you're grouchy but you're not stupid. Dick's the dork in this household." A pause. "You don't feel safe with Jason staying here?"

A defensive snort, just as she'd anticipated, comes at her in response. "I don't **_fear _**Todd," Damian said firmly, rolling his eyes. "I just merely believe that for him to remain here is… unwise."

"There's nowhere else for him to go. He has **_amnesia_**, Damian. Right now, he doesn't think he's the threat – he believes **_we _**are. He doesn't remember any of us, doesn't remember meeting Batman or becoming Robin or dying or becoming Red Hood. Right now he's just Jason, he's scared, and we need to help him."

"t-t. Don't expect me to not state 'I told you so' when you all find yourselves with a bullet in your heads," Damian grumbles sourly, spinning around on his heels and stalking away. A cat jumps out of a closet – how do those things keep getting in the house without Bruce's knowledge? – and follows its young owner down the staircase.

She remains in the hall for a moment more before quietly wheeling herself over to the door Damian had been before, and pushing it open with a soft creak of its hinges. It's dark inside, the curtains drawn shut, a small dim light in the corner the only thing preventing total blackness. She wheels herself in quietly, over into the room and towards the large bed with the still, sleeping young man tucked beneath the comforter. Even in sleep, Jason Todd looks as if he's battling inner demons, jaw slightly tensed, brow furrowed. She watches him with an almost sympathetic look on her own face, before remembering that the Bat family doesn't **_do _**sympathy; she changes her expression to one of simple care, almost that of an older sister looking down upon the younger, prodigal son.

Barbara Gordon has never been one for emotional moments, for those quiet tender phases you see the girls on the television and in books possess. She's not one for **_drama_**; but now, with everything oh so complicated at the moment, and this brief period of silence offering a small reprieve…

Barbara takes Jason's still hand in her own, and holds it, firmly, her own smooth fingers trailing against rough, calloused ones. "You're home now," she whispers quietly, to Jason, to herself, hoping maybe somehow she's also calling out to Bruce, wherever he is. "You're home."


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: LOOK WHOSE NOT DEAD!_

* * *

"Dick."

"Dick? What kind of name is _Dick_? Do you **_know _**what that…"

"**_Yes_**, yes, I know; but it's actually short Richard. Richard Grayson. Dick Grayson. "

"So why isn't it **_Rick_**?"

A pause, and then an amused sigh. "I don't really know, Jay."

"Jason. It's Jason, not Jay; no one ever calls me Jay," corrects the young man lying beneath several layers of blankets, sheets, and comforters, that confused scowl reappearing on his face as he stares hard at the older boy sitting at the foot of the bed. In return to this, Dick frowns a bit before reapplying his trademark smile. "Well, I did. All the time – and you hated it then, too, so…"

Jason's eyes narrow. "Explain again what's happened."

He can sense the fear and distrust behind the malice with which the words are wrapped in, and Dick makes sure his aura is calm and soothing, makes sure he makes no sudden movements which will startle his brother, ensures that he gives Jason no reason to fear him. "Well, as I was saying, I'm Dick Grayson. I'm your adopted brother; you're twenty-years-old now, and you were in an accident. You're suffering from amnesia." The words come out easily, well-rehearsed in front of a mirror, Alfred, Alfred and a mirror… it had been a unanimous decision by the others to let Dick in first to see Jason once he woke up, and so Nightwing had been handed a carefully drawn script to feed the memory-lost Red Hood and pushed into the room.

The young man had stopped throwing things at him after only two minutes of a quick, soothing conversation and plenty of promises that no one in the Manor would hurt him; Dick counts that as a victory in itself.

Jason is staring at the opposite wall hard, brow furrowed behind greasy locks of ebony hair, and Dick lets the younger man take his time thinking as he himself stares out at the dreary gray skies and lazy snowfall outside the bedroom window. He wonders what his brother is thinking at this moment, what the rest of the family is thinking downstairs, what **_Bruce _**is thinking, wherever he is out there in Gotham. Bruce's name brings unwanted pains shooting through his chest again, more emotional than physical, and he forces that train of thought away for now. He can't afford to brood over the AWOL Dark Knight right now; Jason needs him.

Jason, whose eyes are once again locked onto Dick's when the unmasked Nightwing finally focuses on him again. No words, just a silent, intense stare that Dick returns – though considerably more gentle – for a few moments before trying a smile. It falls flat before it can even begin to form. "Something you want to ask, Jay?" he inquires softly.

"Where's my mom?"

Dick freezes at the question, though the stiffening is so well masked and controlled it could only be noticed by the most trained human eye. _"Where's my mom?" _Jason has asked this question over a dozen times the past hour he's been awake, and each time an answer has managed to be avoided: Alfred comes in with a well-timed glass of water, or Tim strides over to take a temperature reading and perhaps offer some broth or an extra pillow. Damian had even come in once, but only to retrieve a white mess of Persian fur from the closet; he'd scooped the cat up in his arms, shot Todd a long, unreadable look, and then had left without saying a word.

But now, as Dick waits, hoping for someone to once more come through that door and save him from answering Jason's most persistent demand, the room remains still and empty and cold, and Jason's eyes remain locked onto his adopted brother, and the air between them remains silent.

After nearly five minutes, which are broken up only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, Jason asks again. Voice even, not angry or hurt or sad or scared, but simple and controlled; the voice of a little boy whose asked the question hundreds of times, and is prepared for the best of news, or the worst.

"Dick Grayson? Where's my mom?"

For once, Dick isn't sure how to answer. _She's dead_, rings through his head; but surely he can't tell Jason that now, can he? Only an hour awake, three days after his little freak out upon awakening in a strange bed with strangers all around… can he dump on his little brother that the only family he currently knows is dead? Worse, that she'd been **_murdered_**? Murdered for her drug addiction, for her hopelessness?

For her son, whom it turned out she'd loved with the last sane cell in her being?

Dick stays silent.

* * *

That clock is damn annoying.

_Tick, tick, tick, tick…_ It's a grandfather clock, and Jason has soon realized that while it 'ticks' constantly, there's never a 'tock'. It's always _tick, tick, tick_, never _tick, tock, tick, tock_… He wonders why. From this position in the bed, he can't see the face. Maybe the clock is stuck and broken. Maybe its jammed, or frozen in time. Frozen in time. That's what this whole situation feels like. A warped, twisted time freeze; and Jason waits impatiently for the 'tock' to come, and for life to move on. For him to be released from this surreal mansion with the warm, blue-eyed boy, and the demon boy, and the intelligent boy, and the kind old man… and apparently the billionaire father he has yet to meet. Jason waits for him to wake up from this crazy dream, and to once again open his eyes to Crime Alley's gray skies, and his mother's mumblings a few feet away, and a stray dog chewing on his shoe by his feet.

Jason's waiting… but he's not waking up.

And the young man, Dick Grayson, still isn't answering his question. Jason stares steadily at him, even as every part of him inside is screaming; he stares, and doesn't move a single inch of muscle he can't remember ever gaining. After five more minutes, he repeats his inquiry for the third time. "Richard Grayson." He tries the young man's full name this time. "Where is my mother?"

_Tick, tick, tick, tick…_

He tries two more times. Dick Grayson doesn't move an inch, but stares blankly at the window. He's been staring at that window the whole time, though Jason's sure he hasn't realized this; it's like he's waiting for something, or someone, to come sweeping through the glass and save the day. Maybe Jason is waiting for that too, since waking up doesn't seem to be an option.

But nothing changes in the room; the silence remains, the stillness, and the _tick, tick, tick _of the clock.

Five times he's asked the question, and five times he doesn't receive an answer. Jason knows what this means. It'd happened when he'd been five, and had asked his mother repeatedly why he never got to see or play with his daddy. After asking and asking and asking, Jason had given up, and accepted the fact that his mom wouldn't answer, because there was no point. He'd never get to see his daddy, so best to just forget all about him.

Which meant, that this time, it's his mother he'd never see again.

Jason opens his lips to ask the question of the day – "is she dead?" – but no sounds comes out. He clamps his mouth shut, and after a weak glare at Dick Grayson, he flips over onto his side and stares out the window some more, his back to the older boy. He doesn't need an answer; he knows for sure, even without verbal confirmation. His mother is dead. She's dead ,finally, and Jason is trapped here in this mansion with these strangers, with a secret so obvious around them all that the air is clogged and polluted with the aura of their worry and deception and mystery.

_Tick, tick, tick, tick…_

Jason shuts his eyes, and pulls the blankets up over his shoulder, and around his jaw tightly, as he bites on his lip so hard he begins to taste copper.

But he will not cry. He will not. He's twenty-damn-years-old now; and even though the rest of his childhood, and family, and sanity seems to be have stripped away, he will not cry.

He'll just keep on counting the 'ticks', and not the 'tocks', and waiting for a miracle he knows will never come.

* * *

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap…

Damian Wayne grits his teeth as he slowly lowers the comic he's been flipping through to glare at the source of the irritating, exasperated tapping that echoes through the silence plaguing Wayne Manor. Drake, of course. Sitting on the other side of the breakfast island, sloshing soggy cereal around in his bowl as the fingernails of his other hand beat a constant rhythm along the marble countertop. Damian scowls at the boy but didn't speak, as if he expecsd the teen to realize that his actions are terribly annoying all through the sheer force of his mental frustration. But Drake doesn't even seem aware that the younger child is in the room, and after a minute, Damian buries his head in his comic once more.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap…

This time Damian slams his book on the counter, with such violence that Drake jumps and spills some milk along the island's surface as he looks at the young Wayne with wide eyes. "Damian…?"

"If you **_insist _**on taking part in a pattern of annoying and exasperating habits, Drake, might I suggest you do them somewhere not so **_public_**, so that those of us that are trying to find a distraction in a more quiet and less bothersome task might be left undisturbed?" the child snaps, voice a low growl as he shuts his comic and crosses his arms.

Some of his old defensive mannerism snaps into Drake's eyes at the harsh tone; but, strangely enough, weariness soon take the bite out of his stare and the teen exhales sharply, running a hand through his unruly hair. "Sorry," he mumbles.

An apology? From **_Drake_**? Damien doesn't buy it, and continues to stare with hardened eyes that reflect the Batman's so much its unnerving. He waits, as if expecting Drake to add onto his strange statement with something else; but when nothing but dead quiet follows, the boy feels his stone resolve crumbling. And oh, how he **_hates _**crumbling. "What did you say?" he challenges, with an arched brow.

Drake sighs again, sliding off his stool and walking over to grab some paper towels; as he begins wiping up the spilt milk, he shoots Damian a second-long glance before shaking his head and looking down. "I said… sorry," he says, voice still murmuring as he picks up his bowl of decaying cheerios and places it in the sink.

Damian doesn't know what to do with this. Drake is quiet. Drake isn't defensive. Drake is apologizing for a minor annoyance that Damian **_knows _**he overreacted to – though he'd never admit to it. _What is happening here? _Calculating eyes follow Drake's every movement, study every twitch of a furrowed brow and shallow breath of a teen boy trying to cling to… something. Sanity? Calm? Peace? Damian's eyes soften – though once again, he'd never admit to it – as he stares. He chews on the inside of his mouth, not sure how to respond to this new, passive Drake. This Drake that isn't fighting with him, isn't telling him to stop being a spoilt brat, isn't… doing anything, Damian realizes. After cleaning up his mess, Drake sits back down on his stool, minus any cereal, folds his hands on his lap, and goes back to staring at the coffee maker. There's not even a tablet in his hand.

Damian **_may _**just be feeling slightly concerned by now; to the point where the boy, after unsuccessfully trying to return to his literary reading, purses his lips and clears his throat. "Drake?"

He's rewarded with the response of a grunt. That's all. Drake doesn't even look in his direction.

Maybe it's the weariness hanging in the air, or the depression leeching from the second floor; maybe it's because the house seems so empty without Bruce chatting on the phone with business partners, and Alfred bustling about cleaning every nook and cranny (the butler is currently out on errands, and shall return shortly). Or maybe it's because, with Jason injured, the Batman missing, and Grayson slowly stretching himself thin trying to hold everything together, that Drake is the only suitable company left for the youngest Wayne. Whatever the reason, Damian slips off his stool, socked feet shuffling noiselessly over sparkling tile as the younger boy moves over to where zombie-Drake is still staring; and he stands beside the teen equally silent, not speaking, simply observing.

After almost ten minutes, Tim finally feels eyes on him, and turns in surprise to where Damian is watching him. "Um…. Damian…?"

"Quiet, Drake," Damian snaps, with a little scowl; Tim snaps his mouth shut, sighs, and goes back to staring. And most likely, thinking.

Damian pulls his stool over to the other side of the counter, and perches himself on it, without his comic book. And neither boy speaks; it may just be the first time in a long time that both were in such close proximity with each other, without the spouting of icy words and insults, and without books, forks, and cups flying between them.

It may be the first time **_ever _**that these two have reached something of an understanding with each other; it's time to drop the offensive and defenses for a minute, it's time for toleration, it's time to do everything within everyone's power to hold it together, it's time for… something.

If Tim hadn't been so intent on processing everything about their current situation to the finest detail in his mind, he might've just smiled.

If Damian hadn't been so intent on watching Drake and wondering if this was what 'end times' meant for the one… family… he'd thought to be unshakable, maybe, possibly, he might've just smiled back.

When Alfred returns to the Manor a half hour later, shaking the snow off his shoes and unbundling himself from his wool coat and cap, he finds the two youngest boy sitting side-by-side together in the kitchen. He puts aside the groceries and goes upstairs to find Jason curled up on his bed, and Dick laying listlessly beside him, neither young man touching each other, but obviously aware of each other's presence but not objecting. The Englishman knows for a fact that Barbara Gordon is back home, with a cup of caffeinated tea in front of her, and a pot of coffee, pouring over schematics and news reports on her laptop.

And Alfred makes a decision. He makes a decision that waiting for Bruce is not an option anymore. He makes a decision that this family – **_his _**family – needs help; and this time, the Batman can't provide the aid. He has no idea where his surrogate son is, if he's safe, if he's still chasing the Joker or maybe lying half-dead in an alleyway. He **_doesn't know_**; but what he **_does _**know is what's right in front of him. These four boys, and that young girl in the heart of Gotham, are falling apart. And he cannot sit back and just watch that happen.

He forsakes the groceries in the kitchen, even though the ice cream might melt and the milk might spoil, and shuts himself in his bedroom. He goes over to the private landline there, and sits at the mahogany desk that is positioned beneath the massive portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Wayne, Bruce's parents, and dials a number. And he waits, patiently, while an operator answers, and while a secretary directs him to three other lines before finally, a male voice answers above the bustling of what sounds to be a busy office.

_"__Hello?"_

Alfred makes sure his voice is to the point and professional; but even he can't hide **_all _**the emotion from his limp tone as he sits back in his chair and rubs his temple with two fingers.

"Mr. Kent? I'm so sorry to bother you in the middle of a work day, but… I'm afraid it's quite necessary….. it has become quite necessary for **_Superman _**to pay a visit to Gotham…"


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: look whose aliiiiive**

* * *

The doorbell rings once. Twice. Three times throughout the empty manner, before footsteps can finally be heard racing through the upstairs halls, bounding down the steps… and then Dick lands hard on his feet after flipping down the rest of the steps. The young man races to the front door, nearly tripping while doing so, and skids to a stop just as he grasps the knob and throws open the portal to face the tall man with ebony hair and thick-lensed glasses smiling wanly at him.

"Uncle Clark!"

Clark Kent's smile broadens a bit at the sight of his surrogate nephew, and he offers the young man a solid clasp on the shoulder as he steps inside. "Hey, Dickie. How are you?" _Stupid question_. He knows perfectly well how **_everyone _**is… but cordial courtesies seem the best way to approach this situation.

Apparently, Dick thinks so two, because Nightwing returns the man's amicable grin with a polite (yet wan) smile of his own. "Managing, Uncle Clark," he replies, just as footsteps skip down the staircase. Tim appears with Damian shadowing him, and Superman gives each of the boys the same greeting he gave Dick before straightening, fixing his glasses on his nose, and nodding once. "So… where's Alfred?"

Alfred is upstairs, in Jason's room. Kent is led by Dick towards the bedrooms while Tim and Damian wander off silently into the main parlor. Strange. Kent can't ever remember Bruce's youngest charges being in the same vicinity without spouting off insults at each other like machine gun fire. Their quiet, mutual agreement of a truce is disconcerting and yet another sign of all that has changed since Easter, when he'd come to visit the Manor last.

"Alfie is in here with Jason," Dick informs him as they stop in front of Todd's room; the young man purses his lips, and looks at the door with heavy eyes. Kent places another hand on the boy's shoulder, and Dick shoots him a small, grateful smile that disappears far too soon. "I'm gonna be down with Tim and Damian," he adds, and Kent nods.

"Course. Go on, Dickie. It'll be alright."

Dick disappears back down the stairwell, and Clark watches him until the boy's headful of black hair is out of sight. Then, the man's hand reaches for the cold doorknob, and holds it for half a minute before slowly turning the golden knob and pushing open the door with not as much as a creak. Dead silent. It's like he's entering a morgue, almost, and the thought sends chills up the alien's spine.

Jason is comatose on the bed, and Alfred is sitting in the nearby corner polishing silver. Polishing silver. The sight almost manages to bring another smile to the Kryptonian's face as Clark steps inside and closes the door behind him. He mouths a hello, to which Alfred offers a cordial nod; Clark observes the man's lips try to form a smile but don't manage any more than a rippling wrinkle before falling back into their polite but grim expression. Clark, without a word, sits down – and five minutes pass with the men simply sitting and watching Jason, one man's fingers twiddling while the other's brushes a polish-stained cloth over a collection of heirloom spoons.

After a few minutes, "Where is he, Alfred?" breaks the silence softly.

Alfred finally stops his task with a barely audible sigh, pausing his wiping a moment, before he takes it back up again with a shake of his head. "I don't know," the elder confesses softly; and Clark has never heard the man sound so… near broken. "He won't answer his communicator. Beacons and tracking devices are turned off. He's disappeared, Mr. Kent. Gone off the grid, completely. He could be out of Gotham and we wouldn't know of it, he could be captured by the Joker, could be…" His voice trails off.

"It's not that, Alfred, I know it," Clark tells him quietly but firmly. "He's still out there, probably running himself into the ground… but he's alive. If he were dead, you'd know it."

"Yet how…?"

"You'd know it," he repeats with confidence.

Alfred exhales softly beneath his silvered mustache, and his withered hands shake slightly this time as he picks up another spoon. "I know," he concedes in a whisper. He licks his lips. "It's just… after the Court of Owls… I thought these types of situations were over with…" A nervous, bitter chuckle. "Foolish. Foolish old me."

It hurts. It physically **_hurts _**to see them – to see **_Alfred _**– like this. Clark is sure that the old man hasn't had the chance to properly break down as Dick and the boys had, and with the decision that he cannot allow that, Kent takes those grandfatherly hands in his own, taking the spoon its clutching away, and looking Alfred in the eyes.

"Alfred," the hero says quietly. And he leaves it at that.

Alfred meets his gaze with reluctance, before shaking his head and shooting a glance at Jason. His surrogate grandson, looking perfectly innocent and where he belongs swallowed up in that massive bed piled with comforters and pillows. Quite like the child's first night with them – though that time, Dick had insisted on sleeping on the floor of his 'new baby brother's' bedroom, to make him more at ease in the large mansion.

To Alfred's horror – and Clark's relief – the butler's vision begins to swim with hot moisture, and when the Englishman moves to dab the horrendous tears away, Clark stops him with a shake of his head. "You called me here to help," the younger man states; his strong grip on those frail hands tightens.

"So **_let_** me."

_Let him_.

Dick is downstairs pacing the front hallway when, after fifteen more minutes pass, he can't help but go back to the second floor and walk, as silent as one of Damian's cats, to the door of Jason's room. He doesn't need to press his ear to the wood to hear the soft sound that comes from the other side, muffled, controlled, but so rare in the Wayne household that Dick feels his heart freeze for a minute; before the young man turns and sinks down to the ground, knees folding under him as he sits outside in the hallway and hangs his head. The sound from the other side of that door is enough to cause blue eyes to shut tight, and a whole new surge of anger and accusation and grief to fill his voice. "Bruce," comes the whisper from the unmasked vigilante's lips. "How **_could_** you?"

It's the sound of Alfred…

No.

It's the sound of an old father, weary and worn to the bone, crying for his son to come home.

* * *

"It's too quiet," Damian mutters from where he's perched on the back of the largest sofa in the main parlor, a gray kitten on his lap and a sword in his hands as he sharpens it.

Tim is stretched out in the nearby easy chair, laptop in his hands, and he glances up at the younger boy only after quite a few minutes have passed; then, his eyes flicker up with slight surprise at being spoken to at all. "Huh?"

He can't help it; a large, royal eye roll makes its appearance as Damian glances at Red Robin. "I dislike having to repeat myself," he states firstly. "And I said… it's too quiet."

Tim acknowledges that with a slow nod. "Yeah," he sighs. "Here at least. As for the rest of Gotham…" His voice trails off until it is no more, and he shifts his focus back to his laptop.

Damian does not appreciate being replaced by a mechanical device; especially when Drake was obviously about to inform him of something. And **_he's _**called the uncivilized one. He clears his throat once in an attempt to get the focus of the teen – and when that fails, he does it again.

His third try consists of him hurling the sword at Drake's head, so that it imbeds itself into the plush cushion two inches from that head of dark hair.

"DAMIAN!"

The youngest Wayne isn't faced by the harsh, shocked, condescending, angry tone of the older; arms cross over his chest as Damian stares with a cool scowl at the other boy. "You said that Gotham is not quiet; why not?" he demands. He will not be kept out of the loop.

Tim's withering scowl doesn't fade but he still obliges the youth, if anything, because Damian has another sword lying nearby. "Alfred's going to make you repair that by hand," he mutters as he types a few keys and then turns his laptop so Damian can see. Articles, from both news media and the Gotham Gazette, are all over the screen. "What do you think?" he says. "Batman is completely AWOL, meaning Joker is still loose in Gotham as well. Red Hood, Nightwing… we've **_all _**disappeared from patrol. We could be dead, and the scum of the Gotham Slums think that means it's a green light to party all night long." With a shake of his head, another weary sigh follows, and Tim pinches the bridge of his nose. "This can't go long. We've got to re-enter the field. **_Tonight_**, or at the latest, tomorrow night. Or this entire city will unravel."

Damian tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing automatically as he muses things over. He stares at Drake until Tim glances over at him, and frowns at the stare. "What?"

"That's not all," the younger boy states, half an accusation, half a prideful tone at knowing something was being left out at all.

Tim purses his lips. "Well… that's the thing. We can't **_all _**return to the field, Batman can't without Bruce, and Red Hood can't without Jason."

"We have a contingency plan for Father."

"Yes." It had been developed after the battle with the Court of Owls; another Bat-suit, this adapted for Richard "Dick" Grayson to fit in. If the Batman disappeared from the skies for a stretch of time Dick would have to (even though the young man was as reluctant as he could possibly be) wear the personification of Nightwing **_and _**the Dark Knight till Bruce could take up the cowl himself once more. It's the plan they'll have to use now – Tim had heard Dick discussing it with Alfred just last night. So Red Robin's concerns are not there. They're with… "But what about Red Hood?"

Damian waits for Drake to go on; Drake does, with yet another sigh. "Damian, Red Hood basically has the underworld wrapped around his finger by now. If any bats show up in certain vicinities, it'll be a massacre." Eyes shut as Tim leans back, and shakes his head to himself, as if the weight of this situation is too much for him to handle sitting up straight, eyes wide open. "We need Red Hood back on the field as well. Maybe… maybe even more than Batman right now."

"Grayson is hesitant to take Father' s cowl until his return," Damian points out in that annoying condescending tone; but Tim knows what his point is. Dick is as reluctant as possible to take on the Batman's personae – for them to ask him to also wear the Hood was too much. The teen leans back in the chair, closing his laptop for the moment and closing his eyes, brow furrowing as he thinks, mind running through several scenarios. Damian stares at him, Tim and that annoying little line that appeared between his eyes when he becomes a quietly analyzing **_computer_**, and nearly growls. "Drake."

Tim huffs, opening one eye above folded hands that were raised to his lower face. "What?"

"Share."

A sigh, and he shakes his head. "Nothing to share yet."

"Bullshit."

Tim quirks a brow at that, both eyes open now as he stares right back at the child Wayne. "If Alfred hears that coming from your mouth…"

"This matter requires such vocabulary in order to penetrate your stubborn folly," states Damian firmly, unfazed by the minor threat of summoning the English butler. "**_Share_**, Drake."

It's only a thought – a theory. Not worth sharing, not yet, which is why he was hesitant. **_Not_** to shut Robin out, which is what Tim knows the younger is assuming. Funny how that theory – information being withheld out of spite – is now far from the truth. Hilarious, almost, in that aspect.

It's snowing again, this time just a small flurry that falls from gray skies. Vaguely, Tim wonders if Bruce is protected sufficiently from the weather. Mother Natures has been known to defeat the Batman in scenarios where the Joker, the Court of Owls, and even the Injustice League could not. His mind begins to ask questions. If Bruce needs backup. If he's cold. If he's sleeping. If he would approve of the plan slowly putting itself together in Red Robin's mind. If he would even care at this point… if he'd cared, surely he would've come home, wouldn't he? Was Bruce that afraid? So afraid of **_Jason_**, more than he'd feared anything else…?

"Drake." Damian's voice again. "Share."

Tim tears his gaze slowly away from the window, and it lands steadily on his younger brother with such intensity that Damian, instead of griping out how slow he is being, takes a moment of silence to take everything in. And with that, Tim shares.

Once he is finished, Red Robin leans back and watches Robin carefully, with his fervent gaze never wavering.

And Damian smiles.


End file.
